#7 – Where The Shivers Won’t Find You, Or: How St. Vincent Made it OK For Me to Be OK – Dalton Day


On February 6, DMC celebrates its TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! Holy mackerel, time flies. It’s been a great year. We’ve published hundreds of pieces this year that we feel proud and honored to share, and we also put out our first book! This week we will be counting down the Top Ten Most Read posts from our second year of existence, and will present #2 and #1 on Saturday, February 6. Thanks for being part of a wild and excellent two years.

The mythology of a body: a vibration of light until a shape. A fear of being bitten by the air you depend on. I depend on. More often than not I love the vibrating. I glow as a result of it. I glow as a result of most things. Even fear. Even blood. Even weather. What is my shape? I run sometimes & the ground makes the most sense. What do you call the ground? I call it a place to get to another place. I call it a tooth with no mouth. I call it a body. Am I the only one in the only world? & so it is re-written when my hands change. & so I re-write it again.

A room with two windows. One window: a mountain. At the top of that mountain is a dog’s skeleton. I have no way of knowing this, but I do. & I am comforted. Trembling is my most honest word. Tremble to say your name. Cold sweat. & the mountain crumbles completely. Dust can’t live without light. Much like me. Much like this room. Much like this window, if only this window. The dog’s fur comes back. The dog disappears & I feel a burning in my wrists.

One window: a window in a window in a window in a window, etc. At the end of the windows, there is a petal. I can see it, even though it is night. The world is the world’s shadow, peeling. The petal floats upward, in spite of no wind, & then falls back down. It never touches the ground. It never touches the sky. If it were to do either, all the windows in this one window would shatter. If it were to do either, it wouldn’t be night anymore. This does not mean it would be morning. Blood flows in more than two directions. There is no end to this petal, though there will be an end to the room.

The most important part about this room is: I am not in it.

I am running. I am touching the ground. When I see a cloud I call it by my name.

This is birth. This is birth. This is birth. A birth is proof. A birth proves most things, but not everything.

Prayer is just another question. I ask questions when I don’t recognize my hands. Am I kind? Am I careful? Where is the difference between angels & angles? I think things are simple. I think mountains depend on fingers. The heart doesn’t do anything without permission. I think I am wrong. We’re all sons of someone’s. My father called me Boy more than he called me Dalton. I don’t know if this matters to me. The only word the fist of my heart knows is Queen. I mean pray when I say hold. I mean pray when I say wild. I mean you when I say pray.

My body as a feathered thing. Beginning to know it as a winded thing. A field. A bark. A knife, melted down. I am such a digital thing. My throat is coded to bloom. I see an airplane & I can’t move. What a mean is, my face is bright. I take it everywhere with me & I am afraid. How perfect hands are in the shape of a bowl. A shape. A dream: I am moving this fielded thing between trees. Wherever I go, there are paw prints. Wherever I’ve been, there is a safeness.
What sound does a season make?

What sound a skin?

I truly believe the doorway to be the most important invention. May I never leave them.

This is the animal of me: quiet, & then not. Quiet, & then quiet. I look at the moon & am not embarrassed by my astonishment. I am not embarrassed by my animal. If the moon is embarrassed it is only because we have never stopped trying to see its wholeness. Summer is lonely. Winter is lonesome.

If my heart is rabid, it blooms, too. I am always waking up beneath porches. I am always waking up as a porch. Burn me down, & there will not be smoke. Just a way towards the sky. Mistake me for clouds. Mistake me. You are wrong. What do you mean by weak? What do you mean by mountain? If I cannot cry, I will flood instead. There is static around my shoulders. See it in the shape of a dress. Sew me in the shape of a river. If there is thunder than me, I am sorry. If there is lightning in me, I told you this before. Sand as a way of scale. Ocean as a way of history. My fingers are gone, severed to make room for new fingers. Re-write this. I do.
St Vincent

The mythology of a body: the words we know best, changed. Rubble: Glow.


About Dalton Day

Dalton Day is a terrified dog person & Pushcart nominated poet, as well as the author of Fake Knife. His work has appeared in PANK, Hobart, & Everyday Genius, among others. He helps edit FreezeRay Poetry & Souvenir Lit, & can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com & on Twitter at @lilghosthands. View all posts by Dalton Day

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