Anthony Frame is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently Where Wind Meets Wing (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2018). He is also an exterminator and the editor of Glass Poetry Press. His work has appeared in The Shallow Ends, Verse Daily, Third Coast, and in anthologies including Not That Bad: Dispatches From the Rape Culture (HarperCollins, 2018).
Glass Poetry Press is a micro-press located in Toledo, Ohio that publishes The Glass Chapbook Series and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. Our chapbooks and poems have been reviewed in Ploughshares, Plume, Verse Daily, and other publications and included in many Best Of lists. We firmly believe in equity in publishing and in fee free submissions.
And Now Even the Stars Can Dance
-for David Bowie
The stars, somehow, seem the same, simmering quietly
beyond the clouds. It's a chance of alignment, of time,
the structured rhythm of a quickstep, that placed us here,
now, together. Who are we today: androgynous oracles,
misfit messiahs as our blue world tries on a pair red shoes?
Perhaps, now, we are who we've always been, opaque
as tonight's fingernail moon, that serious and twisted sliver
that seems to always wish it could laugh. Tomorrow,
I'll name all the cumulonimbus clouds Ziggy, but tonight
I wonder what happens when you pour salt into a star.
Night burns, sizzles, like plastic soul, a postmortem dance
in our eyes that are always dilated, waiting to bloom.
Now, I wonder if god has ears and feet or if he’s just lonely,
if he’s that fine silt of dust and ash we’re left with,
above us, below us. Now, we are the flame we can't touch,
the holler contained inside the hollows, a requiem composed
from broken and bright lightning. In my manicured lawn,
a rogue amaranth plant refuses not to breathe, the wind
stealing its seeds like teenaged days offered to the stars,
days of dancing behind bedroom doors, when stereos refused
these elegies, when even a scratched beat wouldn't break.
No one one told me this echo could be so stubborn.