As if we are inside warm water.
Or any surface, skimmable
Lip, surging freshly transmitted light.
This space—meadow; no,
Parking lot, lit
To feel as if we aren’t habited, but
It is 11 years ago / X
Takes the photo from the passenger
Seat of my
Often wrecked and reanimated car.
I want one city
That never gets old.
It feels like one of the first
Days, humming and ajar.
Everything I love has something to do with beams.
You can’t capture mist /
Instead, I learn there are 3 kinds of water:
Surface, ground and atmospheric.
11 years later
I want to send X a picture
Of January-sopped city, 60 degrees
Understanding is not also occupying.
Explains: Solar left brain, Lunar right.
I get it.
I try eating cold weather fruit.
Am getting better
At being stupid, at accepting
I don’t comprehend
Underworlds. I insist on
That picture through my windshield
11 years ago.
I eat a lime green apple.
That picture was and is
Of red and white light under
Our city’s streetlamps,
Releasing droplets, exposing the aura
Of the air
It is the nature of a droplet to be the smallest observable element.
I don’t know what to say about other people.
I want to ask everyone what they want;
I want to ask everyone what they want to want.
Elements aren’t the same,
Although they both dissolve: ice
And snow can become one thing,
And always 2 ideas. O,
We were also listening to the radio,
Of course we were. I think of that song
It’s Only Time.
We never listened
To that one. I don’t know when
The photo, only that it appeared
And I tape the photo of the frame of the window-frame
Under the window, as if
I want to remember how hectic /
Or how over-valued / a fence / can be.
Or any outside which informs on the interior
Of anything else. Is that when I began
Trying to arrive at
The Clearing Open
Enough to excise
It takes awhile for me to learn
The term Memory Work, to
Access my interior in the dynamic way.
I start counting.
It is days until X will also exit.
My sister leaves town.
I tell him 1 time that it will be insufferable.
Now I have already endured it.
I know I meant it.
An emotion too extreme to bear:
Intolerable, unacceptable, oppressive, overwhelming and overpowering.
An inexpressible and unthinkable
That same summer as my sister flew away I
Wrote: have a good flight.
And in return: You too.
And as she hits the atmosphere, I receive her
Words / in reverse:
And for an entire season that is the image I keep
On my phone, as if
As if I could not change
Meditate on Saturnalia, I begin
At the apex
Of a circle, at the juncture of continuous return /
Where everything comes back
In love with revisitation /
With that which can be restored.
I decay and expand and a green frond unfurls that is
Time as the one crisis which can’t be seen
11 years ago
Our city was also wrecked. Why would
I believe in anything?
Than wind. Or circles, I mean, a satin circumference slipping
Into itself, I meditate on that
And find all I wrote was that which was written on the back of the photo:
The scene is perfect/
ly adapted to this/
distinct, abrupt, framed,/
it is already a memory/
(the nature of a photograph/
is not to represent but to memorialize)/
this scene has all the magnificence/
of an accident: I can/
not get over having had this good fortune:/
to meet what matches my desire.
I must mean Fire.
The element of no homecoming /
Air the only other it requires
And even that, only in appetite
In the style which dark isn’t dark
Who do I think I am?
Outside a constellation
Of over-burnt asterism
Held together by her own
Especially as we ease
Away, as all the luminosity lifts
And in the clearing I assume the order
Invisible except at the critical flash
Not of fence, but
Candice Wuehle is the author of the chapbooks curse words: a guide in 19 steps for aspiring transmographs (Dancing Girl Press, 2014) and EARTH*AIR*FIRE*WATER*ÆTHER (Grey Books Press, 2015). Her work can be found in Tarpaulin Sky, The Volta, The Colorado Review, SPORK, and PRELUDE and is forthcoming in The New Orleans Review and Juked, among others. She is originally from Iowa City, Iowa and is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.