Metamorphosis
With the window open, the room comes to life Part of the Same Series What if the truth never comes? And though some Armando Jaramillo Garcia is a Colombian American artist. His book of poems, The Portable Man, was published by Prelude Books in 2017. His work has appeared in Boston Review, Prelude, PANK, Gulf Coast, TAGVVERK, crazyhorse, Foundry, and others. Image: stock.adobe.com Check out HFR’s book catalog, publicity list, submission manager, and buy merch from our Spring store. Follow us on Instagram and YouTube. Disclosure: HFR is an affiliate of Bookshop.org and we will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. Sales from Bookshop.org help support independent bookstores and small presses.
with a variety of sounds, the street, just outside,
I believe is a ventriloquist, making me think
all its quarrels and serenades are just behind me.
The sun, now riding under the earth, has never set,
it just sits there, not thinking but giving off its light
and heat, maybe a gift, but one that’ll run out.
They’ve cut back the milkweed patch I always visited
to detach a few pods, to bring home, to watch them dry
and open. That’s the way it is, to each lizard its wall,
its fluorescence of grammar, setting renewable fires.
I believe in the rapids emerging from my knees, their
mismatched energies, leaping from tree to tree.
There’s always a poem or stanza about being together
at the foot of ruins, what was realized, a trifle,
I really feel this way, a man possibly possessed, turning to fungus,
an upgrade that’s never been reported but thought to exist.
The avant-garde, what a moniker, still inspiring with nothing
but always in disguise with different names, have left the building,
abandoned the train for rougher going, where toppled statues
look better at rest, with broken fingers, chipped noses,
there are photographs that prove the present.
I’m rolling back my eyes, head falling forward
cracking it on the toilet, no pain, just blood.
are waiting others are crawling to a conclusion.
Pardoned—the affluent, ambition—then anger
so strong we fall asleep. There, bound by where
we live, who we love, the day trembles out of control.
Bolts come loose causing metal to shear from the effort
of moving forward, we pet the animals and pat the children,
give the finger to the rest. The trailer gets unhitched,
it rolls away, overturns in a ditch, spilling possessions
we always have with us, and just as suddenly they’re left behind.
Tomorrow is a signpost, a dark wood confides, wrestling demons
ignore us as we approach then realize we should run,
tripping, we admire good bruises painting smooth flesh.
A performance may be right but can be better as vapors
are released causing wildflowers to wither, taking with them
colors not yet done with their arguments—that a conglomerate
stone, embossed by a generation of lichen, has only regret,
that we ignore or stumble late, but there’s another plan.
An evocation of the blessing of urine, the curse that quickly
followed until the funnel narrowed and choked the rest off.
Something came out of the dog’s mouth talented enough
to escape death, so we struggle, wrestle with what we’re presented,
really have no thoughts other than the ground may be moving.
Heavy Feather Review 