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May 27, 2015 | Poetry

Future Daughter

Sally Rodgers

Future Daughter photo


Untitled One

Motherhood slept astonished as astronomers wept so-so-ago with this sort of blow. This sort of ovary, yo, the story being if thrown into something sombrous, spokes-of-light, it is nine, and I am fasting widthwise into my grain of shameless sonnets. Wrinkle me in the fucking falling, where no one is smoking. Tiny, yellow, corn-looking. See, there's this crystal at the megaplex with smithereens everywhere, sex between the brain came over us. I'm blown. Birds are singing. Sonorous snow. The eucalyptus blooms its leaves down behind us as Q who mourns mothers and would not knowingly eat a coward before his brothers were born. Okay. The weather is here with your money. Her arms froze. You will never remember Mia's body with your family who is happy and few sharp teeth. Brainwaves to airplane. Do you read me? I'm made of secret knowledge and fathered in soot, when all of a sudden, it's just the desert. Walking towards it. Of clay sunset, webbed mungs linger yet. That cock hammers vagina slammer, so no sameness of basic ancestors. Much to the relief of knees. This something something. What laughter sees.

 

Untitled Two

Disco, disco yells-at-kids. Screw around the eucalyptus painless, Mable, painless, Mable, bake sex. As the taint disco cyst drifts in, fatal boots babysit serrated space ships. So widow? With huntgrowth? No ocean to rain in, beserk. People everywhere, beserk. My deft-womb grass-tusk is dope, and there goes El Hanko disco. A pink slink. The Bisquick dominatrix yells at kids like, "That's latex kettle strength, you useless babycake." Whatever. I get maidenface from maidenhood and lurk soot-angst turf-light, so cool her out, eucalyptus, cuz that's my future daughter.

 

Untitled Three

Tonight I felt mostly embarrassed about things years past, thighs get sickle angle sunlight, the naked, ecstatically. It's Hank who misses mammary and dramatized the windows with sunbath in hospitals, tangents of math. We were in a courtyard of multiple chompers begot by wind of what I'm not (dot, dot, dot) llama's here, spokes-of-light, likes-to-yell-at-kids. In a red birth, Mable wonders what voice boxing begins crazy sunlight. Sun bright ain't painted gold but built from lakes. New knees everywhere invented by frankincense and aches. If heaven sent that broke fucking, dear heliotrope, then crickets churn their ________s. And if snow-globes of square leaves spangle languidly, I rung us bell. Now not because of our little morsel, but because the light has changed and the flesh and bones of those animals have been handled already. So much for the singing of paper, what desert shakes invisible, a slurred whistle, intoxicants burn the 'lyptus, an hourglass and land minds got goodnight, dear, cunt can't eat.

 

 

 

image: Tara Wray


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