Poems by M. Elwell Romancito
Recombinate is a series of poems and short essays that accompany a body of assemblage boxes and book works. Moving between memory, systems of meaning, and the quiet mechanics of containment, the pieces examine how experience is shaped, stored, and interpreted over time. What begins with imposed structures—color, doctrine, accounting—gives way to something less fixed: a space where meaning is no longer assigned, but discovered, resisted, or refused.
Containment
Enthusiasm needs
a boundary or it
just gets excessive.
Loud proclamations and bulletins
without emergency.
But put it in a box
and put a lid on it
and you’ve got
energy on call.
A chorus of prayers.
A conference of
symbols too broad
to misinterpret.
Put a pin in it
is what we say when
we signal a
desire to come back
to something.
Bursting a balloon is
how we manage expectations.
A way to harvest
enthusiasm for
our advantage,
but keep it small
and deflated
just enough to fit.
A snake sheds
its skin when it has
outgrown the space
it has occupied
all this time.
Snakeskin is like
a tunnel of little windows
of its former selves.
Shedding ourselves
we are dust
before we begin.
Each cell
a little window
on our dried desires.
Little Books 1 & 2
When I was a kid, there was a Bible study group called “The Good News Club.” My mom didn’t trust it, but she let me go anyway and kept her snark to herself.
They told stories with felt boards – flat figures pressed onto flannel – and they handed out small books with no words. The message was simple: you are born wrong.
The first spread was black. Sin. A wicked world.
Turn the page – red. Blood. Payment.
Then white. Clean.
Then gold. Heaven, if you got it right.
I remember the sequence perfectly. No language, no ambiguity. Just color doing the work of doctrine. A system so clean it bypasses argument and settles straight into the body.
As a child, you’re asked to map your inner life onto those colors. You learn quickly: what you feel doesn’t matter as much as what it’s called.
Black. Red. White. Gold.
Recently, a woman told me, “All you have to do is call yourself a writer and you are one.”
But I did the work. I wrote constantly. It fed me, kept a roof overhead, kept the fire going. Not beautifully, not gloriously – but reliably.
I wrote books too. Self-published, yes. The work exists whether anyone is ready for it or not.
Then I stopped.
I walked away from a memoir because it was cutting too close to the bone. Some stories don’t want to be told in sentences.
So I started making these boxes. These small, wordless books.
No assigned colors. No fixed sequence. No promise of redemption if you read it correctly.
If there is meaning, it doesn’t come from me handing it to you. It comes from whatever you’re willing to bring to it – and whatever you’re willing to admit once you’re there.
Those earlier books told me exactly what everything meant.
These do not.
So I’ll say it plainly, before I go:
I made these. I did the work.
I call myself a writer.
I call myself an artist.
No one gets to correct that.
Recombinate
Remember that time
you saw everything laid out
so clear
there was nothing left
to do but see it
for what it was.
A gnosis so righteous
no one was willing to argue.
So now, at even
farther remove,
you see how
this led to
that and how the
outcome would
have been the same
iteration
after iteration.
A story with
the same ending
no matter
how you told
the tale.
Boxed Time
It would be grand
if time were really
spread out in linear
fashion. The past
over here and the
future over there.
But we know it is
very unlikely, springing
up like an unexpected weed,
a stray curl here,
an unbound episode
unwrapped and
spiraling out
from its origin
like a specimen
meant to represent
all of it, though only
this much is
perceptible
at any moment.
Mesh
A finger presses
against the perimeter
of space and not space.
What does it feel like?
Is it cold? Is it damp?
I heard there was
a smell –
something like static
with a top-note of thought
and fixed with the
gravity of everything
that matters.
Brass diamond mesh
feels like we imagine
snake skin must feel,
were we brave enough
to touch a snake.
It’s hard to think
of how empty
space is with all
those planets
rolling around in
circles arcing clockwise
and going down a drain.
Time fixes matter
in space and
space fixes all the
things that are wrong
with time.
Running the numbers
on memory, a waiting game,
and every once in a while
you sense the cell’s
membrane and trace
your finger along
its surface.
Effort
Don’t open that
box. It’s not meant
to be opened. Keep
it in the bottom drawer
of a dresser seldom
used.
In that room
the chest was filled with
incidents of experience.
Digested, chewed and
regurgitated. Each cell
a regret or triumph.
They all look the same.
The watch keeps its ticks
to itself. Time has
ridden out to the end
an arc plotted closely –
landing with a minute degree
of probability.
Handkerchiefs to stifle
the rattle of the watch.
More secrets. More
items for a cache
of quiet.
It takes effort
to hear every flex
and tick inside this box,
but once the sound resolves
you can’t un-hear it
or forget which drawer
you stored it in.
And like you said,
“No one wants to hear it.”
Field Account
If we’re expected
to keep track
of all the facts
we’re given,
then we’re going to need
a pencil
and something to write on.
We also might need
a way to cover
our tracks
with fire.
Tinkersmith
Is there a
way out?
A trap door
for your exit plan –
a way to plot your escape
and kick the traces
as you melt into the forest.
Beware the cup
and saucer of desire.
Save your energy
for mugging the random
pilgrim and his freighted
careta filled
with stolen goods.
Tender
A tender exchange
or a soft touch
not calloused
or unfair.
The tender shoots
of spring only
need a little steaming.
If we have to
digest unkindness
please boil it a little longer
to make it easier to swallow.
When we make
a bid for attention
we’re offering agreeability
in exchange for permission to stay –
a place to plot your escape.
Freight
Something brought
from one place to another
can be called freight
if it’s important enough
to require an accounting
at the point of origin
or port of entry.
It needs a Bill of Lading –
the list of items
freighted with meaning.
The stevedores trundle
the goods from
onboard
to off.
The Freight On Board (FOB)
of any consequence
must be strong enough
to carry more than baggage.
Important enough.
It’s never really about weight
but the time
and effort
it takes
to get there.