top of page

|| VELA ||

By Dylan A. Smith

RECEIVED 2021 APR 30 | 10.39AM ||begin|| MRWOOD ||stop|| ||space|| this is DYLAN ||stop|| ||space|| writing you this by candle by flame in the jungle ||stop|| will return mid|MAY to the desert | to the lake | to the dark in america ||stop|| would like very much to make on beds w. you to swim naked lakes w. you before ships make haste back east ||stop|| JULY ||stop|| think waterfalls making rivers filling bays like blue lakes down here etc ||stop|| ||space|| must say that life you had it was admirable mr.wood ||stop|| regret what was lost and respect all decisions you made throughout ||stop|| anchoring westward seas by casting inward nets etc ||stop|| ||space|| daddy going north for the coast come autumn ||stop|| plans to go w. him to make new life in green america w. him to eat right and catch clean fish w. daddy etc ||stop|| would like to work on boats | to write about my body my breasts my aching shape on boats in winter ||stop|| caught word of you twice|a|week|teaching in summer ||stop|| vessel on the lake called bluebell i heard ||stop|| very nice yes very fitting ||stop|| ||space|| would like to do something similar ||stop|| a lake like the neon|blue|casino|screens you cracked w. fists like thrown rocks in the desert ||stop|| ||space|| sometimes i wonder what a moonless|neruda might do ||stop|| his word for candle the same as his word for sail you said ||stop|| VELA ||stop|| ||space|| mr.wood the chapel caught fire it burnt down ||stop|| that chapel w. the blue roof w. the blue door you remember ||stop|| southward winds felled white candles unmooring white heat up the altar cloth etc ||stop|| chapel built w. century|old|chestnut of course not growing anymore in america ||stop|| tragedies all spring in america ||stop|| like from what dark what womb might a sail|shaped|flame twist out and swallow up your life etc ||stop|| daddy reading JOB again ||stop|| very nice yes very fitting ||stop|| ||space|| but how are you mr.wood ||stop|| you always were the best of em ||stop|| really mr.wood i mean it ||stop|| i remember everything | you always were true ||stop|| ||space|| but the sins of our youth make feast in my bones mr.wood ||stop|| make blossom in my thighs make fountain of my center mr.wood ||stop|| ||space|| and oh mr.wood please w. these moonless nights in the jungle ||stop|| please let us bind face again in bright lakes in secret again mr.wood ||stop|| and mr.wood please give my flower to america ||stop|| america our lighthouse its candlepower our greed mr.wood ||stop|| ||space|| or mr.wood please come north come to help make brighter days ||stop|| come to make repentance w. me w. daddy mr.wood ||stop|| or please mr.wood please remember ||stop|| when this baby comes i ask for only this ||stop|| ||space|| let us please | please let us call this baby VELA ||stop|| ||space|| warmly | DYLAN ||stop|| ||end||

Dylan A. Smith has stories in Maudlin House and Vol.1 Brooklyn and sometimes helps to curate fiction workshops with a project called Think Olio in New York City.


bottom of page