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May 5, 2016 | Poetry

Three Poems

Philip Schaefer

Three Poems photo

 

Butter Hour

In the morning when you turn into me

and wear your leg around my waist

like an electric guitar and I can taste

your bleeding neon watermelon skin

and when the sweat on our bodies

becomes Minnesota, ten thousand

lakes where your eyes roll back

into that velvet pleasure, when under

this chandelier of tent stars the silence

streams like gasoline in our chests

and the hymning of the sky becomes

a system we’re committed to, a church

bell anthem bred like dog psychology,

a reason to open our mouths endlessly

and lap the air, this music slit open

like animal from fur, some warmth

some little goat dream, this is when

we know it is possible to create God.

 

 

The Elements Form A String Of Xmas Lights In My Body

It was like this. I broke violins

of weather by standing through

the wind, each tooth of its ghost

finding a home in my ribcage,

that winding staircase of bone.

And into my branded side

a chain of rain bulbs lit up

the night. Slit up the slick

architecture of mahoganies,

each limb a moonwalk of black

& white platforms. It was like

my eyes were stilettos and god

by the time it was over I tore

the worms in half and swore

in the ancient tongue. Gun

hiss, sugar hell. If dream

pools are made for falling,

it was like I was finally living

in the air – a drone of my own

doing. Born into a braid of burn.

 

 

Rainbow Drugs

Let’s go back to the twin indigo suns

in our eyes. To shooting holes

through the walls of our skin, one

metal kiss at a time, waiting to feel

desirable. Let’s halve our desires

like a rowboat against the face

of a cliff in storm. Let’s practice

what its like to live alone, sky blue

blood thinning in our viscera, sadness

oxidizing under crimson moonlight.

There was truth in the way the floor

cocooned over our crescent bodies.

Those nights when we boiled powder

and tongued the spoon so silver

we thought we were actually born

again. Let’s go back to the river

before it hardened, before midnight

became the color in our arms, before

death bloomed as the only way

to think, a dream we whispered

through the fertile ears of the earth.

 

 

image: Sean Fitzgerald


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