Stacie Leatherman

the body’s metric, a is home not home,

not the end but the anarchic, semantic crust,

re-toweling of thought, filament,

lots of how you say, conservation,

a the ancient way of paying bills,

you know, dying. A for birds of paradise,

ribbon-tailed. A is I refuse to say

the source. Any not-yet-tied aspects.

This the book not the book.

What I hold up merely a part,

bird flies in threads out

feather through a tribesman’s nose.

Wave pool. Landing pad,

departure point, and the tarmacs inbetween.

Hand over hand the clothesline drawn in,

alight here and take something away,

alight here and bring something back.

If violence is necessary

we will discuss in small voices,

skeptical hands.

In the dead corners

dancing bear, snout threaded with rope.

Jerked up from the dusty road

by the alphabet’s nose,

letters resound     snarl and curse,

de-syntaxed. What language crux?

Deep exhaustion of serving.

Necessity of beginning.

A is for order. Paradox.

The healed wound.

A for the before that was never before.

Unmapped directions.


Any alphabet one wishes to choose.

To be lost in meaning, all entry points,

A the exit, A the raunchy song,

the supernatural speaking in your ear,

A the logic of longing, I speak with this,

with it, A the great woe,         

the scattering.

What animals do not fit the bill?         

Time can be crossed and knotted

extended           shrunk,

bouquets of it I sniff and sniff,

my gored nose fills with pollen,

bees buzz about my brows.

Time the texture, silent trumpet song.

I hear it in the call. What passes like an orchard—





I like to give myself projects, and my current one is an abecedarius. It has been a labor-intensive, free-associational, explorative bout of insanity, but a worthwhile one. And it's not over. I also like deadlines, since my son will be born three weeks from this writing. And which sort of makes me wish there weren't 26 letters in the English alphabet.