Scene XXXV by Loisa Fenichell

Not enough language for the singing flock. The man fishing at the mouth of it. Tonight, I hang dresses from my bedroom walls. Their fabrics glow like goats’ eyes. The river swallows like the bird. I walk through town with a gaze that averts all faces. Faces too familiar. Faces I’ve slept inside of as though they were beds of grass. Yes, I’ve been in love with beauty before – the dog who strays the fields, his tongue lolled out like mine. Tonight, the dog and I both need help with our indescribable qualities. The dog has jagged fur. Perhaps he does define his life by the fact that his paws will melt were they to meet with fire. When I was young, in restaurants, my brother and I held competitions. We winged our pointer fingers through candles’ flames to see whose would burn off first. My brother always was better than I at specifying his existence: he knew he was born during the strength of summer; he knew how to tell jokes. The lights dim. The theater grows empty of thorns.

Loisa Fenichell’s work has been featured or is forthcoming in various publications, such as Winter Tangerine Review, Voicemail Poems, Gordon Square Review, Poetry Northwest and Guernica Magazine. Her debut collection, all these urban fields, was published by nothing to say press. She is an MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California and currently lives in Oakland, CA.