the last springtime gosling
she sits, down on the grass
to snap fine sprouts —
choice too fine for growth —
she, the last to fade into her family.
passerbys crane their necks to watch,
to show her who she could be,
in black and white starkness,
a feathered brass instrument.
she is a thing of hope, that
time can be slow and
she is a cause for concern,
a delicate, nameless runt.
by fall, she will be gone
in one way or another.
DROSOPHILLIAC
I glide an idle death
on the surface of your wine.
What could you know about drowning, you who
swallows me whole without wanting
— what could you know about wanting —
my whole life is forty days and nights
they end in your wine, in your hands,
as the shadow of a doubt
losing my way down your throat.
You could sequence my genes on a napkin,
forget it at the bar,
for all I ever was.
women at the clay and glass museum
baby says he doesn't have anything fancy
he walks around the gift shop
picking up artifacts we can't buy
handling them carelessly
as if he doesn't have me.
clay woman sits on the ledge
so nobody can touch her, so everyone wants to
but beauty is a glass woman who can move
but only ever does under your heat,
at your every blow and brace.
the attendant warns the visitors
there is nothing in the gallery they can touch
"nothing?" they ask, desperate.
"only one thing" he says,
and he points to me. (i don’t have the notebook that this poem was from on me right now so i’m afraid there isn’t a picture for this one)
fib o not geez eek quench (originally in mathNEWS v152i2)
o,
i
by
the
beach
grasping
two empty fists
at sleek, teasing minnows
or at else the knowledge i can’t hold them,
this’s the first time i ever went again and again with empty fists, my
nails gnashin’ ‘gainst sand grains, this my first vain attempt to play with the impossible, to own a metabolism
so i am all i’ve ever been, a girl screaming to stay at the beach, foggy & raw red from the sun, coaxing slippery minnow-words out of her mouth until she is compelled to rest on the banks:
say it like it means nothing to get big. you who knows life as the constrictor wrapping tighter with each breath. you will breathe on & on. you at the eye of a spiral which will need less and less of your noticing to spin, to take up space. say it like a kid, by the syllables, fib o not geez eek quench.
I’m struggling to post these on their own, but I’ve never heard someone explain one of their poems and then thought “oh that definitely enhanced my experience of this.” Hopefully they work. I’ll offer the minimum notes of: the fly poem took me too long and I think it suffered for that, the gosling poem took me no time at all. The other two took me a day-ish. It’s funny to think about how long a poem ‘takes’, because if it comes into your head again, you might change it, and then I suppose that’s more time it’s taking from you.
If you have a form restriction you think would be cool (like fibonacci letters above, or alphabetical like I’ve done previously), let me know! I love a challenge.
For those of you who would like some life updates from me: life is pretty good. I’m busy, the weather is oscillating between sunny and gloomy, and I’m rewatching Chuck with my roommates (all my favourite living conditions).
The fly one is so good