Poetry and occasional prose from Yasha Yatskan's archives

(for AJK.)

“For even the knowledge that we have of the body is not such that we know it just as it is, or perfectly; and yet, what a union!

Alight (for AG. and TS.)

I find the fault between the final pages my fingers fold and all the secret words inscribed therein: belonging to the juncture that binds the ink to cloth, as well as each invisible rift my eye discloses passing from line to line, eliding every mark if not

Masks (for AJK.)

By now the doors to the heart are closed, restrained by fats and wild muscle fibers sewn like ropes into a braid of hibernating colors, always almost torn apart by the spiraled curvature of its weft.

(for KK.)

I speak to the angel Gavriel in the form of a rotted rowan mass, wet blackened, laced white with venous fungi, ask him about you.

How are we to understand beyond the ‘revealed’ relationship between light and vessels, in light of the relationship of their roots in primordial man?

Proof of the body: the demonstrable angles made between pigeons' toes, an image of fire cast onto the pavillion floor by fast-moving birch leaves, the pyre mast.