Lisa Fishman
Myth
New Poems From the USA
 
 

The sunflower hung over its shadow, the sun
thinking shadow, the sun.

The flowerhead was made of seeds, the seedbed
ringed with petals. Something fled.

I broke the flowerhead in two.
I broke it like a loaf of bread
or a honeycomb, in two.

The seeds were full of seeds
I said thinking shell, saying seed.

I marked the day by way of the dream.
There went a sailing, airborne, through a vasty night.
Does it matter which house I heard that in?

Remarked the neighbor
9 doors down.
The blue house, gabled, at the end?

The sunflower lay on the table,
the flowerhead only, the half
of the loaf, the broken bed—seedbed

from the shadow
of the fence, which kept the photo dark
he wrote in the sun.

Something came close to coming close.
Some horses were burned I heard
and the rider, the sailor
the flowerhead flung to earth.