Control Burn

By Darby Taylor

Get up off of your bruised knees
and remember what you were built for

In her debut collection, poet Darby Taylor takes us through the pains of transformation. With inspired imagery, startling honesty, and an affinity for the hauntology of southern Americana, Taylor arrives with a bang. Control Burn begins with the hurt of Part I: Lightning Strike, purges and reflects in Part II: Wildfire, then finds redemption and triumph in Part III: Ashfall. Never sacrificing clarity, this collection sets itself apart in its willingness not to say the simple thing strangely, but to say the strange thing simply. This is a story of pain turned to power told by a poet interested in telling nothing but the truth, no matter how uncomfortable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darby Taylor
• Release date: Jun 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201631475

Book preview

CONTROL BURN

a book of poetry

By

Darby Taylor

Copyright © 2022 Darby Taylor

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART I: LIGHTNING STRIKE

WELCOME HOME

GAS STATION BARBIE

FIRST HOUSEGUEST

SHAVINGS

PANTHER

TIGRESS

LYNX

HARD LEARNED

FIRST DATE

PRECIPICE

EXCISION

RESURRECTION

HIGH PLAINS

SCARLET FLAGS

BRAND NEW ISSUES

BLUE BLOOD

HARD FEELINGS

GUNSLINGER

MARROW

COMBUSTION

GOEBBEL’S GARTER BELT

BLOODBATH PHASE I: An Arrival

BLOODBATH PHASE II: The Nurse

BLOODBATH PHASE III: The Mobile

BLOODBATH PHASE IV: The Doctor Is In

BLOODBATH PHASE V: Aftercare

SHOESHINE GIRL

QUICKSAND

LOOK MA, NO SHAME

MOSCOW

AND THE CRADLE WILL ROT

TRACE EVIDENCE

CANYON OFFERINGS

PART II: WILDFIRE

OZONE

SIDEWINDER

THE BALLAD OF BARBARA JEAN

FOLD, CAESAR

ROAD RASH

DIRGE

BARROOM BARON

HYPNAGOGIA

FRESH FOG, OLD MORNING

BADLANDS

MOCKINGBIRD

HAND OVER FIST

NO RETURN

STARLIGHT

SLICE

BOTTOM OUT

SEVENTEEN

PONTIUS

HALF LIFE

APPALOOSA

GRINDSTONE TURN

INEPTITUDE IN GRAY, A SUITE FOR FAILURE IN APT. 3B

NIGHT DRIVES

DOWN AT THE AUTO SWAP MEET

COMEBACK, KID

HAIRCUT

PSALM 151

SACRAMENT

FUMBLE

LETTER OPENER

ASPIRATED ASPIRATIONS

LESSONS LEARNED

SEASONAL SABBATICAL

PART III: ASHFALL

LILITH

SANGUINE

NEW NOTEBOOK

CHEKOV’S GUN

NOMINATIVE DETERMINISM

THE BALLAD OF THE KINGSNAKE

STEADY

SNOWDRIFT

TRUDGE

VIDERI, TANDEM

STARLET

HALTING

27 KARAT

SENSORY SPECTRE

INTELLIGENT DESIGN

HARVEST

WARM WATERS

PUNCTURE WOUNDS

BAPTISM

THE GOOD SHEPHERD

LIGATURES

VOLUNTATEM DEI

MONTANA AMERICANA

CONTROL BURN

ANIMA

A BURNING

Acknowledgements

About the Author

To Nancy Mathis

for teaching me how to sing

but mostly for teaching me how to live.

PART I:

LIGHTNING STRIKE

WELCOME HOME

I’m standing in front of the house I grew up in

and neither my three cats

nor my broad back

have any idea

what we’re doing here.

The prodigal daughter

has made her storied return,

come to collect

on the bricks

that built her.

I’m standing alone

on the stoop

where I spent my childhood summers

eating popsicles

in a muggy barefoot bliss.

Now somewhere there’s a piece of cardstock

with a shining gold seal

and my little name

that to God and country proclaim

this place more mine than ever,

the mortgage a mere reminder.

I’ve come home

reeking of failures

worse than this.

Besides,

this time I’ve got the keys.

If this is rock bottom,

it’s cushier than I deserve

but more desolate

than I guessed.

But hey,

my key fits in the lock.

That’s at least

a good place to start–

to start at the beginning, again.

GAS STATION BARBIE

A nearly empty cardboard pack,

reeking of yellow stains on windows

and the potential of pitch

in the lower lobes of the lungs.

I light the last soldier,

the white paper man

left standing

in this arena.

I watch him be consumed,

drawn in and quartered

by breath.

The poor soft pumice

of his better minutes

lost in the wind

disintegrated to less than ash.

It is

what it is,

I think.

At the gas station, americana lingers–

the saloon spirit still simmers.

The attendant that knows my name

seems to also know what I’ve done.

He greets me like Hester,

scorns the acquaintance now Jezebel.

"It is

what it is,"

reads the bumper sticker

for sale by the register.

I stand on the curb

exactly where a ghost,

anniversary of three years ago,

occupies the space–

a spectre slipping her tongue

into the pallid mouth of a man

that would gut her

without a thought

just a little down the line.

"It is

what it is,"

reads the bumper sticker

visible through the window.

My old neon soda pop palace

now harbors memories

and enemies.

I wouldn’t come back,

but I can’t kick

the cancer sticks.

FIRST HOUSEGUEST

Had my first houseguest,

a gentleman caller come a’calling.

He brought a housewarming gift,

a necklace of bruises.

Something I don’t have to worry about returning

because it isn’t my taste.

The best thing he brought

was an unintentional linen spray of sweat–

so now if the sheets stink,

at least they smell of someone

I haven’t wronged.

His kisses are soggy

from being bitten back too long

(but so are mine).

I let myself get swept up

in his teenage-flavored eagerness.

Midday he leaves

to present

the final papers

to his (now) ex-wife,

parts with a peck

on the cheek.

Me, well,

I just cry in the kitchen

wearing my collar

of broken blood vessels

and the garter bruise

on my inner thigh.

Guilt rises

like bile

borne of old failures,

the acid familiar.

The cats creep forth

and sit around my feet,

troubled.

I pick up the little weird one

and sob into his back.

He looks at me a little strange,

but allows it.

I am gonna be okay,

I refuse to be anything else–

I am gonna gnash my teeth,

I am gonna fight–

I have come too far

and lost too