A Cauldron of
Bats
After Airea D. Matthews’ “Descent of the Composer”
It’s hard to name how, or more precisely when
the body becomes a cauldron of bats—talons clutching to a pit
like the tongue risks losing its first language : this name
is pronounced as my mother’s fairest trial
flown out from the caverns. We position dormant in the dark, and by dark
we mean among the stalactites. Lapping up our salt with a soothe
when the snap doubles back : leaving our lungs as a pulse
in pursuit of the signal. Thin skin to the sky and then lift
to this morning in bed, half-awake, where I am no owner
only luminated bougainvillea. Paper petals to the window
top sheet in slow rhythm with the sleep of my loved one.
Do I know this for sure? No, I am no seeing creature
I am millions of them awake in the dark
and by dark we mean acoustic : patagium fingers distort
our migration into swarm. I have yet to prove the echo
doesn’t leave the mouth—no, sometimes
the signal consumes the sender : one massive, mechanical wave
cracking upon fine lines of consent. We know to hunt in the dark
but I still consider sonar an unreliable medium—how I strike
a match to something ahead and then it’s on fire.
Published by Foglifter Journal, vol 7, issue 2, 2022
After Airea D. Matthews’ “Descent of the Composer”
It’s hard to name how, or more precisely when
the body becomes a cauldron of bats—talons clutching to a pit
like the tongue risks losing its first language : this name
is pronounced as my mother’s fairest trial
flown out from the caverns. We position dormant in the dark, and by dark
we mean among the stalactites. Lapping up our salt with a soothe
when the snap doubles back : leaving our lungs as a pulse
in pursuit of the signal. Thin skin to the sky and then lift
to this morning in bed, half-awake, where I am no owner
only luminated bougainvillea. Paper petals to the window
top sheet in slow rhythm with the sleep of my loved one.
Do I know this for sure? No, I am no seeing creature
I am millions of them awake in the dark
and by dark we mean acoustic : patagium fingers distort
our migration into swarm. I have yet to prove the echo
doesn’t leave the mouth—no, sometimes
the signal consumes the sender : one massive, mechanical wave
cracking upon fine lines of consent. We know to hunt in the dark
but I still consider sonar an unreliable medium—how I strike
a match to something ahead and then it’s on fire.
Published by Foglifter Journal, vol 7, issue 2, 2022