Paul Ilechko
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Paul Ilechko is the author of three chapbooks, most recently Pain Sections (Alien Buddha Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Juxtaprose, Rogue Agent, Cathexis Northwest Press, Thin Air Magazine and Pithead Chapel. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.
More Godlike
The seaweed stinks of whisky in these parts she said a glinting
ulceration where the sunlight glances from the waves a silver memory
of everything you ever cherished of everything you left behind we’re off
the map she said you’ll never make it home again imagine yourself she said
as an arrow released from a bow that arcs its way over half the world only to find
its tip embedded in your spine such is the life of the pioneer the clouds
above this place she said are the color of war the color of the horse that spits
in your face as you try yet again to express yourself as more than a collection of basic
essentials we are all gods she said butsome of us are more godlike than others.
ulceration where the sunlight glances from the waves a silver memory
of everything you ever cherished of everything you left behind we’re off
the map she said you’ll never make it home again imagine yourself she said
as an arrow released from a bow that arcs its way over half the world only to find
its tip embedded in your spine such is the life of the pioneer the clouds
above this place she said are the color of war the color of the horse that spits
in your face as you try yet again to express yourself as more than a collection of basic
essentials we are all gods she said butsome of us are more godlike than others.
The Expectation of Birds in the Rain
Rain and the April afternoon burns through my knuckles into soft gray elemental my ruined fist that fails to grip my eyes the color of daybreak losing my shape as the year progresses into wilderness
there is language and there is beyond language there is the felt only in blood the impossible to dream there where the inheritance of ghost blossoms and antique glassware cracks slowly into splinters of wildfire
regret is the way the rain drips from the corner of a slanted roof the way that moss grows only on a certain side of a tree the way we swam though tangled skeins of bedding too soaked to ever leave our room
there is language and there is beyond language there is a half assembled bricolage a braiding of leather of magnolia leaves there is the creased and broken skin that once caressed that once spilled elastic from magnetism
birds swarm through rain swimming with ease beyond the keratin dream of hollow bone my bones singing in time to the beat of their wings.
there is language and there is beyond language there is the felt only in blood the impossible to dream there where the inheritance of ghost blossoms and antique glassware cracks slowly into splinters of wildfire
regret is the way the rain drips from the corner of a slanted roof the way that moss grows only on a certain side of a tree the way we swam though tangled skeins of bedding too soaked to ever leave our room
there is language and there is beyond language there is a half assembled bricolage a braiding of leather of magnolia leaves there is the creased and broken skin that once caressed that once spilled elastic from magnetism
birds swarm through rain swimming with ease beyond the keratin dream of hollow bone my bones singing in time to the beat of their wings.
