Revelations of the Star

 
 
          Wormwood, the star that falls, holds the bitter appetite
          of stars that bite on the edge of woods. The woods
          uphold the velvet night, a midnight blue pulled
          from the box of the new child at school, blue child,
          sharp as a new star.
 
          A star in the eye, that dust of light, hurts bitter as a river
          in dusty fire, cinders turning worms. Fires don’t burn out
          but outlast the lungs of shores which surely breathe. What
          we could do together is lost in one breath, like water met
          by a star with a name.
 
 
 

Small Frame

          
          
          In the altar of the star, a woman.
          In the wasp come out of the barn
          to chase the man mowing,
          anger crimson as star’s burning,
          that living. Who knew so much anger
          could fill such a small frame?
          It bursts the walls of the loft, the floors
          of veins. The wood stopped living when cut
          and was divided into beams to hold weight,
          and the wasp has clung
          to it, solitary female beginning the nest,
          queen who hid through winter. The males
          serve their time and die. The daughters
          help with construction, chewing
          the wood to paper. Winter,
          all die but the new queen,
          daughter hidden in paper.
 
 
 
 
 
ANGIE MACRI’s recent work appears in cream city review and Moon City Review. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she teaches in Little Rock. Her chapbook Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past is available from Finishing Line Press.