Time also a helix tightening or loosening 
the material from which we’re made.  Just 
think how things oppose each other—sense 

and anti-sense, death and rebirth the same year, 
father gone, the floating messengers inside us 
transcribing the past. Sister beginning to unravel 

a broken phosphate that is suddenly a dream of 
windows blown in, curtains fluttering. Dark 
separates from the light like an oil: a bad day 

in the third grade now a voluble history, mute 
matter looping back as memory and intrusion.  
Think of her other dreams, all her teeth gone, 

a child in her arms, then her arms suddenly empty,
she’s kneeling in church, her kerchief askew, her 
boyfriend at the apartment passed out in the bedroom.  

She tries to sing as if music were coming up 
out of the kitchen drain, this her art making 
and being made, her left-handed spiral offering         

its song, where love and the lost child and fear 
are a triple-stranded moment still twisting among 
the clouds in an unspeakable distance that every 

morning is so near. 
John Allman | Mudlark No. 37
Contents | Brothers