I Dissappear
opening time,
Mercury for a mother,
our communiqué
coy where I came,
her sneaky cunt
1 mishap, misshaped,
not south; she molded
a creed in her pores,
1 mother’s virtue
against crème
applied at 10:31 p.m.
& colorful mascara,
lipstick tricks,
scrub cheeks
under blush.
In her eyes:
1 ringed moon
3 trips down the aisle
2 hours of labor &
1 twin dying
as her kohl-lined eye
smudged
1 collaborative haze
lost among blot powder’s
shimmer, which makes it all stick.
The Eighty-Eighth Room
Shrouded and Gowned
among mirrored moons
I was a speck,
silently flirting my casual interests,
slight faux pas
among alluvial snarls.
On our winter wedding day
I buzzed white flashes,
sparks in a twinkling lover’s eye.
When he had me that night,
I was jagged (a twisted nail).
He loosely hastened
our midnight strokes against floorboards;
again seething and slipping
against the meadow of his chest
I clench air.
The gleam blowing darkness,
I still breathe yesterday
when daddy came, naked as the spirit.
The Shape of Things
Let’s go take Asian pictures. Pout like Geishas & spook the back alleys
of
Sapporo. I know you love to play. You can mount me like a dragonfly.
Like
something awful pinned & praying to St. Mary. Something pregnant. Full
of
your residuals. Perhaps today you’ll take a prisoner. Make this
exception.
Turn this neck, turn this neck & hold me still. In the morning I’ll
blame
you more. There are wounds in your bedroom: an orphaned womb? When I am
bent
in half, my collar bone touches me. I make milk with these, amorphous,
also
bones again. But they belong to a slag. I kiss Satan’s toes, each a
plea
turned under. There is fear in there. A missing backdrop? A dark
fireplace?
A sealed window? Yes, devotion. Yes, with spikes. Pointed metal,
linear,
coming out of my chest. I am the image of an iron fence, dressed in
white:
silk, garter, veil. I keep a bone here. This love is more or less the
shape
of things.
Thesaurus Sonnet: Amorphous or When You’ve Fallen for the Imaginary
Pronunciation: A-‘more-fus
1. You are without shape: an indigenous vision, non-descript
form,
unclear, dressed in black perhaps, coffee drinker, your stories don’t
have
words, what of your vague shapeless spine—are you liquid? What would
happen
if you were a structure? Perhaps I’d fall 35 flights, head first,
through
your nebulous. But, you are amorphous and will fit anywhere. But,
structures
without structure tend to crumble.
2. You are not classifiable: obviously not belonging to any particular
category,
or type, not necessarily a woman lover or a man
lover—instead, an
undecided lover. Fickle, frank, forgery, you finger possibilities, fuck
girls in cowboy boots; like fishing for quoi in a pond, play dead in my
bed,
play words against walls. But, you are amorphous and will fit anywhere.
But,
I am amorphous too.
3. You are without crystalline structure: our geologies don’t match &
we
have no chemistry.
4. Slang: idealistic, idol, cloud dweller.
A Lesson on Takeout
He is curly haired. Massachusetts, between my sheets. The blinds open.
The
lights slightly dim, slightly toying with this girl? This woman? This
secret? Outside, four hours ago, where I met him; a sudden high tide.
Now we
take pictures of night. Undress to our comfortables. I read “Please Be
Good”
to this stranger, his head against my thigh. Then Ipswich sleeps. He
dreams
about my breasts & may tell me this later. He is bent in half & his
arms
show bristles for hair. Mine against his, each strand a tangle &
sometimes
this tickling divides. It crawls along the bedpost. Makes a mockery of
my
turned mouth. The floors are not hardwood. Not ceramic. Not marble. But
they
connect these four walls. Red lipstick is the door to here. Where I am
a
neon sign, against his mouth: a screen for my door? We are not
courting.
There are no fireflies in Chicago. Why singe a wing? Why singe? We
swear on
exhibition. I leave my panties at home, in the dresser, or hamper &
I go
to work.
Jamie Kazay a California poet, now in the Midwest. She is a graduate student at
Columbia, working on an MFA in poetry, where she teaches composition. She
holds a
B.A. in English & Creative Writing from CSU Northridge. Although she is
allergic to cats, she aspires to own one, which she will promptly name:
"Black-eyed Susan." She has a green writing room--where she makes language
home. She has been published in the Northridge Review, Mount Voices, The
Roundup, and The Bull.