by Amber Garma

when it’s light out, and there’s life in your legs again
—- if there’s not yet, hack at ’em, let what heat’s
left in your hands spark husks in your blood.
have it remember. It hasn’t always been so hard
for you, doesn’t have to be—- once dawn meets
dust meets land in time with the drawl
of the drilling, darling, you need to learn how to dance

so you have choices, of course, between bricklayers
—- who’d break you a thousand barriers because
you’re beautiful in the limelight, lifting, like smoke,
lace on the curtains of night—- and the walls they build.
and the forests they fake when it’s dark out,
there’s a luminesce on the lake, like shadows of silver
leaves you can melt for a meal

but there’s not much of a difference, is there?
both deceive. the fizzing flints are first a fountain
and next a tree, with its ghastly fingers growing
fast up your feet, having you remember how it felt
to dance like death is watching, toe to the wall,
to hear him tear metal through your ear
I’m still here, Giselle, I’m still here.
your limbs linger, and lift, like smoke
when the sky is clear. the forest burns. the machines turn
and make perfect landings, thump a thump a thump,
your bricklayer barely believes this is music, until
he hears it, beat a beat a beat against the wall
like hands brushing or heart blazing but only
in brief sizzles, soft like smoke, a spirit
the cold could never kill. I’m still, here, Albrecht,
I’m still.