Superstardom
by Abbie Doll
the wind whispers: go. be a phoenix.
like that’s an easy thing to do—
to die and bathe in flames,
to discard the flesh in
the swamp below, complete
-ing some old-for-new body swap.
and while whispers normally
imply secrecy, mama wind’s urges
lack such silly privacy;
anyone with functioning ears can hear
the summon, can feel her beckon,
while we minor masses toil
sculpting each and every last sun-
set with our ambition-driven sacrifice
until everything comprises of we—
we the participating, we the anticipating
people pushing to phoenix
strive-diving for all these dreams
which are worth dying for, worth
melting into that fiery horizon, worth
collapsing ablaze—mid-try & mid-
s t r e t c h—flapping to reach
those hurdle-heavy destinations
before the light is gone for good
and we expire like milk on the shelf.
meanwhile, we keep reducing our
selves to veiny tangled wisps,
lit matches in a funeral for father light—
basking in these ethereal implosions,
mid-makeover, making us
supernov[er] susceptible
but no one ever mentions
the delicate dexterity required
to look at the light
when you are the light
(and we are) we all (are)
mani-pedi manufacture(d)
self-generate(d) auburn glow
self-g(l)aze(d) and self-mad(e).
those of us who succeed, anyway,
converting fossil to fuel
know: not every day is honey sunny
and cousin destiny is a horse to rein
(in) a horse to reign (over)
a horse to ride (on)
but the one phoenixy thing
that we neglected to note—
once the transition commences,
your aspirations, they, too, transform.
and now we’d rather be the shade
fading into shimmer
-y bob rossian landscapes
with feathers cascading
off our b[ir]dies in a slo-mo series
of plip-plop showery drops
plunging into an otherwise still
pond—where we can’t help but
glance down, can’t help but
get a glimpse of
our glossy mossy reflections,
but they’re/we’re (absent)
in the midst of our mis(s)t-
-y dripping forms, mid-
shift, mid-amber-ale-bloom
and upon f[ea]ther (mirror-less) reflection,
we think this sunset wardrobe:
our goldenrod caps, light-
leaning black tanks, and rust-
kissed heather-mauve chinos,
is pretty damn edmund-burke sublime
and for fuck’s sake,
if we’ve got to fade
if we’ve got to go
into oblivion’s murky throes,
why not here
and why not now ~
