Gingerbread House Lit Mag

Cento on My Failed Metamorphoses

It was winter under
A certain little star:
                      A first day fable?
          A snow white fable.

Pear tree. Prayer.
A snow fairy January.
          The waking orchard: 
          The waking horse.


          Pegasus is
The source
          Of our fountain—end and the beginning:
                                These two trains.

One train may hide
          Dead horse.


          I do not
                      A blessing: instructions
                                On how to put an old horse down.

          It was winter
(A blessing)
          And day brought back my night—I am that

I am: a horse
                      In a baggage room
                      At Greyhound, praying


          This is just to say

          This is just to say of heaven
                      And animals “A dog
Has died.”

          I would like to describe the dusk
          Of horses travelling
Through the dark. I would like
          To describe how to like it—bone and
          Silence, the death, by fire,
                                Of a child in London,
                      Of London snow,
                                London rooftop

                      (The city in which I love the street
                                            With no shop
                                On the corner, this hour
                                And what is dead),

What I am:
          Fork with two tines
          Together, two women
                                In a barn playing
          With fire.


          In view of the fact
          It was a glass winter
          And I a dim lady playing with fire, what
                      Do women want:

          $2.50? A purple bathing suit? Sex
With strangers or
          To sit a summer
                      In a small screen-house with old men?

          Bless their hearts—a prayer
          Before bed (another lullaby
          For insomniacs):
“In heaven it
Is always autumn”
                      Or “On the mountain, Mother
          Lets off a little steam.”


          So what
Do women want?
Power? Breasts?
          The Gentleman of Shallot!
                      No more grapefruit!

          So what the hell,
                      Rage, give into graces.
While you were away: 4 A.M.
While you were away:
                      The one night stand.
While you were away:

E pluribus unum, Lawrence.

          Do you love me?


I lost my horse,
I lost my horse,
          To fairy-tale logic

(“Heaven’s always autumn”)

          In a beautiful country: no one here
                      But us.

                      In a beautiful country—
          No one here but us—

                                A very hot day
                                           Is our other sister,
                                                                 Yet horses
At midnight without a moon
          The moon in your breath—
                      A piece of the storm—
                                                       And what isn’t mine:

              Good-bye, Horse.
Cold, good-bye.

David Antonio Moody


David Antonio Moody writes out of Tallahassee, FL where he pursues a PhD in poetry at Florida State University. Former poetry editor for Saw Palm and Juked, David is production editor of Cortland Review and Southeast Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sweet, Eleven Eleven, 22 Magazine, Spillway, and Artful Dodge. When not camping, researching Ukranian violinists, or lecturing on Carthusian manuscripts, he spends time in his hometown, eating in Florida oldest diner and watching the local river flow north.

Artwork: “the time traveller” by sugarmints

This entry was published on August 28, 2014 at 12:10 am and is filed under 8 (August 2014), Archive, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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