An Hour’s Peace

Photo from @banannasui.

Waffle-fry footprints on snow,

indelible breasts bounce in red turtlenecks,

dog collars tinkle to the wayside,
fur hatfuls of flasks.

Sun sleeps warm in cloud blankets,

armpits rub in frictionful nudity,

yellowbellied children race with

ambulances nearby,

and you yawn in the pitch of the gas

heat. Small wonders glisten in eyes

furrowed in the black keys of February.

I will go down for you, freeze

fingers for you. Thighs dislocate

thighs and fingerprints trace fogged

glass for you. Seven thousand flakes

keep you from cars and cancers. Every

tendon in your hand is my God.



Suicidal CNA works seven to seven,

Puts old brains on ice,

Marrying Jell-O and incontinence,

Sterile confidence,

Bony prominence;

Pressure always from the ground up

From twin beds, lone twin beds,

Presses up from all sides, eats

tendons, hips, heels;

Cemeterial chiming way down the street

Jowls cascade down cheeks,

Candles melting;

Clocks on every wall in that emporium,

Faces pressed up, hands make quiet bony cracks,

Louder at dusk;

She tells you, “Let it contract.

Loosen your fists from your bedrails.

I hear the clocks too, ground up

Buff face of white bone.”


Unfathom’d Caves

Re Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”

Illustration by Ella Corder

Unfathom’d Caves

If one were to grab Picasso by the neck,

turn him over and spill out his blue nudes

and women with yellow hair,

And if one were to then sweep up with a broom

all the breasts and the lips and the trumpeted ears,

and make them into a shining golden pile,

And if one were to hide the pile in the depths

of a mahogany basement full of aging whiskey,

jars of brown molasses and smoldering Persian rugs,

And then if one wrapped oneself shamelessly in a dirty rug

with the golden pile of bounty,

and from one’s pocket retrieved

A gem of purest ray serene, which

The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear,

and stared there, in the depths,

With one’s eye to the green gem

looking through at the golden treasured body

in the womb of the cellar of a thousand years’ loneliness,

Then, perhaps, one could imagine the color of your eyes.