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July 24, 2013 Poetry

3 Poems

Allison Leigh

3 Poems photo


Thing Being

               Écriture feminine

I was told on a train I was after

delicate—or something to do

with feathers. I heard bird, bird

bird. I heard the word but

misinterpreted the sound of it as a sort

of prayer for unveiling a seventh

sense. I thought, screw defense

as I was relentless with my mouth

not my fists. Bird, bird—by then I heard it

only sparingly like the shadows of Iowa

machines melting away into mid-day.

Bird. I hear it less now and softer, until

the bird is silent, the word is dead

and the silence wrecks. Yes, sir

I do dream of thinking

Defense, defense!

But O! What the body has

nearly no time for!



Outward now!
“ ” those precious skull habitats

be free “ ” past thing “ ” those parallel universe children “ ” Onward! Out

           toward the bay blanketed with ice “ ” cozy
           toward the beyond
           no “ ” toward Wisconsin!
           toward the tumultuous horizon “ ” we swear we won’t regret

An eye “ ” a presence “ ” a pocket watch

A basement “ ” an enclosure caked in cinderblock “ ” an establishment

           places I dared not go “ ” once / now “ ” I found new friends
           “ ” the cock to my cunt “ ” a dream to watch in someone else’s brain

It rings hot like a siren
It wakes mad like being warned

Delicate spider pink impressions etched in sterilized opaque glass

Masterfully afloat with lucid suspicions

           about mysteries “ ” what do they have to do with this
           our lives never felt like they were lotteries
           histories heard high enlightened

However “ ” here you have found me “ ” conniving as we are clever

           judges “ ” lawless
           “ ” yet how certain!

The Mountain Goats in our heads again
“ ” wincing “ ” terminal lyrics
as if Transhumanists would ever listen sincerely

           if in the future chrome hearts refuse to ache

Never an unconscious moment “ ” you said with your back to me
“ ” Never amiss! I laughed “ ” Somehow nothing is “ ” never entirely gone!


Debacle in the Closet

Less, he says

           And there is less

Less still, she mimes in the pastel cold

But this doom in the chest

Checkers by the tree lit up in the red room

You’ll see me in the fire again

Like your best nightmare, the wind says

Less, he says

           And there is a rumbling, a stampede coming

Less still, she hums

He plucks out his pubic hairs

He scatters them like ashes over the evaporating pond

Our eyes will grow into our faces someday

           Like the moon-man’s have


image: Andromeda Veach