We Do What’s Left To Do

J McSweeney
Joyelle McSweeney

My notion of art is very maximalist and souped up; I love spectacle, overload, magic materials, magic words, incantation and litany, incarnation and possession, spilling and wounds.  Art as a sacred event.

Joyelle McSweeney

Your Cool Whip

by Joyelle McSweeney

Inside the plump tub, we find the whiteness
Wears a peculiar swirl.  You guess a motherly pump
Nuzzled the young surface, left this umbilical mark
Of the factory, that vague, prenatal hum
And glide, the kissing valves and shutes
Pouring little vessels full.  Our talk does not
Long linger there, in those maternal corridors;
In desire there is only the present.  Our prurient fingers,
Divoting the swell, are surprised not to sink
Infinitely deep.  They butt against the plastic tub;
The sheer stiff molds around them, takes their heat:
Stasis the death of what is less than love.
We do what’s left to do. We eat.


by Joyelle McSweeney

Leaf-keep, un-sibyl; if the soul
Has the weight of a swallow, what less
Has the weight of a sip? You equal
This riddle, unposed in your dish
As a hand at rest in a lap. Held to,
You hold back what can’t be
Prevented, what’s no more palatable
For that: the unfine; formerly, our future.