Dirge of Reenactment: Performance Notes

In preproduction, even the wheels are eulogized.

“V” becomes “play.”

“Hour” then “Anh,” you must say crying.

Meadow, chamomile-dusted, orchid-dusted, one survives.

“Bewilder me.”

Twigs and fallen fruit are enacted daily like a malediction.

Fake persimmon tree, opal eyes of buffalo, buffalo-wife made
plural, and washing feet.

The cart has been poached before.

What is peeled, also poached, downpours “và.”

Cue striking gourd, a trapdoor of all places.

Who recognizes herself scenically afield? Reed and strings
accompany.

The fallen become tone.

The falcons stalk.

“Đi,” if repeated, resounds less and less.

A diva stands behind piercing velvet with long tapestry
needles.

Bells rend salt from skin. Silhouettes descend marking brass.

Such plain notation gestures: Go.

We can wait. Don’t worry about ma.

Gnosis

Who can help with the child’s homework?

Simple subtraction:

take an orange out back,
plant the seed which is not seed.

Fallow is a day from here.

Who goes out uncovered, yet?

An orange farm which is forgotten

little ways to move dirt from
dirt.

Whose child is this?

To whom does the child say, “My belly, my belly”

[indecipherable]?

Let no end point. Let no mine go unturned.

Sophia Terazawa is the author of two books with Deep Vellum, Anon and Winter Phoenix, a finalist for CLMP’s 2022 Firecracker Award, along with two chapbooks I AM NOT A WAR (Essay Press) and Correspondent Medley (Factory Hollow Press), winner of the 2018 Tomaž Šalamun Prize. Her first novel is forthcoming with A Strange Object, and she currently teaches poetry at Virginia Tech as Visiting Assistant Professor. Her favorite color is purple.