The Uterine Gesture of Their Bodies

We believe in a daring oology
with endless calcifications. You want to know
the root of things, to point backwards toward
the roaring cretaceous. I want something tiny
to hold in my hand. We should discuss delicacy here,
but you mustn't misunderstand: it means more
than gastronomy, though the transparent-thin bones
of a rainbow trout can summon all the same ennui.
It's too simple to say life is fragile and I am fragile
and I don't know about the world
. Easier still
to spin on this axis drunken or sleeping
or watching the cat watch a cat outside.
Fronts move in and fronts move out; ground water
adjusts. An early cold snap sweetens the citrus
or it doesn't; we move on and mistrust strangers
who point out rot in our perfect oaks.
It pains me to hear such accusations.
I expect majesty to go on forever.
You ask is this like the twin fetal fawns
and I know almost.

Peaks and Pits

I want the shape of anything that changes.
The tide and its increments, each wave an adjustment,
cumulonimbus tragic and borderless. I want to cup
my hand along the edge of something and instead I sublimate,
my head a weighty idea bolstered by submitting
to some kind of magic. Fog is romantic but not as romantic
as believing yourself inside a cloud. Which makes me more grateful?
Which more afraid? Fog, I know to find you in a field,
you bedfellow of frost; I know to pin my eyes open
on late and early drives. Cloud, you come and go at will.
Mountains jut out only to recede with time. Glaciers
freeze and melt, hulking and dormant. We are so like
this fickle topography—growing hair and teeth
only to lose them again, our height over time parabolic,
our faces stretching and sagging without focus or grace.
I could say I want the shape of anything stable and wait
for you to tell me what I mean. I could seek clouds
where they rest, on mountains still in their heydays,
I could be a cool buzz on my own skin.
Maybe the trickiest thing I could tell you
is so much seems permanent at the time.

Caroline Cabrera is the author of Flood Bloom (H_NGM_N BKS), and the chapbook, Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press). Some of her recent poems appear or are forthcoming at B O D Y, Ilk, Sink Review, The Bakery and Whiskey Island. She lives in Fort Lauderdale.

"The Uterine Gesture of their Bodies" is based on a piece of art by Peregrine Honig, and the title is from her artist statement for the piece.