Three Poems : Renee Alberts
Good Friday
His gut lurches inertial as
the funicular jolts into motion.
Got some Ebonic graffiti here.
Fingertip traces calligraphic dips in
whisper-fine brushstrokes on window:
Sanskrit superimposed over
ironwork over foliage.Wires coiled in cable helix
fitted to cast iron sheaves
grind steel rails round
in increments thinner than black
creases in his knuckles as he scratches
stubborn film the shade of breath
on glass: Dunno what it says,
but ya can just tell. His mouth
smells like wet iron.Those boneheads—he’s lucky
to have opposable thumbs. I forget that
chemical they use to etch into glass.
You can’t get that off.At passing point,
both cars counterbalance,
weightless, freed from
the ratchet’s muscular
heave against gravity.Well, it’s definitely gang-related—
he touches the descender
of an embellished “g”—
they’re putting someone under.
Renée Alberts listens to rivers, talks to the radio, and translates the conversations into poetry, sound and collage. She learned all of this in Pittsburgh. She's been lucky to collaborate with some of the city's finest wordsmiths and musicians, and has participated in and curated many events. Her chapbook is forthcoming in February from Speed & Briscoe Press. Witness her in 1s and 0s at http://williamthesilent.blogspot.com/.