The fallen birch in the woods wears the last
of her bark lightly, a loose sheaf
whose diameter shows what a figure
she once had. Cut-outs show mossy rot
but spiral out extravagant curls and tendrils
of lichen-tinged stiff tulle, the tree
almost lost within her final statement piece,
like Björk in her Oscars swan dress flounced
across a nude body stocking, sexy memento mori
with feathers. And ever since it’s been mourning
and life, her ever-expanding costumes
and headpieces and losses and tiny chirps
amid vastness, and I bless her fabulous constructs
for dancing with the bones we nurse inside, green
and ordinary in their moldering.
Click here to read Josh Jacobs on the origin of the poem.
Image: Birch bark by Anders Sandberg, licensed under CC 2.0.
- I See Björk in the Woods - April 23, 2024