Tag Archives: Amy Neill Bebergal

Lodestar

by Amy Neill Bebergal


The terminal prognosis is the star of this
whole damn production, circling bedside
reticent audience. And when I say star I also mean
massive luminous sphere held together by gravity,
winking parting glances through the burning atmosphere, saying:
You’re seeing me, but I’m already dead! I envy
the fade-out, the one disappearing, eulogized, bequeathing.

I’m waiting for that wrist-grasp from the edge—
a glint of surprise off a closing face that says:
We’re more than you ever imagined! And we’ll hedge.
And we won’t have to go back to the office later,
pick up mail, tossing it with crush of keys, fanning across the table.

Actually, I’ve read books that say angels miss their bodies.
What I mean is, the universe, too, can be jealous, having
borne itself into such willful children—can feel like
that smarting girl at the party jilted by flowers, red rage
rising from beneath cotton t-shirt, up stem of neck, clouding her
judgment, caving her in.

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The Jerk

by Amy Neill Bebergal


Luminous and provocative character
through which desire passes.
Some essays exchanged, public knowledge,
refracted impressions drawn from
an unconventional body, intimately listing
now I’m smitten over the course
of the boundless first time.
Seductive.
Unearthed artifacts now suggest emptiness,
parsed assumptions, following people, followed by
a clear departure before turning, in essence, on himself.
Later, gathering sympathies for a death—it wasn’t even his.

Mockingbird

by Amy Neill Bebergal


When the mockingbird in fall
starts to sing again
the robin’s springtime mating call

I’m tricked despite the carnival
of orange and yellow glow from time’s
withdraw. I’m winsome

in the gasp before the frost
to hear—with leaping chest—
that hopeful blooming, now just odes

to season’s passing, love’s earliest
unfurling, grown warmer, longer
with the light. All that was potentate—

what easily entered heart: the first surge,
the crest—then, yes—the leave-taking.

But what has been taken down
becomes fertile ground for next time,
I’ve found.

Speaking to Bees

by Amy Neill Bebergal


Scientists made a tiny puppet to enact
a conversation; after passing for relations
(but with a sketchy accent) they observed
‘the tremble dance’ as demonstrated by a forager—
how he’d visit flowers in the morning, seeking one
copious beauty’s reward for an attraction, mark the path
and then continually returning, with intimacy untold
throw himself into grains of yellow gold until
conditions changed or grew deficient in producing.
Henceforth upon return to hive, he’d perform
‘the circle dance’ to indicate that well’s gone dry.

Airport

by Amy Neill Bebergal


At the gate, such ritual displays
of the ordinary to distract in the space
between leave-takings. Costly
bottled water, single-dose Tylenol,
donuts trucked in daily, the themed
bar. Newspapers, tabloids following
the pregnancy of a princess, serial
mystery novels. And later, some of us
assuming an intimacy in the arbitrary
rows of the fuselage.