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December 17, 2020 Poetry

Four Poems

shy watson

Four Poems photo


i wanted
in the way
that want follows

a half moon
of bites

it starts
like this

rara saw
in my eyes

hard to describe
to you who
no longer longs

at the height
of its ripeness
i plucked the lemon
from the tree


the haunted object

lubricant & empty wine
i uncharge
with the used
butcher knife
a clockwise motion
i love choices!
i love to cuddle up
and make them for me


mothers’ day

will keep you going
mitch said
i've always dressed
like a skater
it was relieving
to sit in the grass
seems i'm not allergic
to the ashwagandha
nightshade: the name of a bar
godfrey furchtgott
means peace of god
fear of god
protection by mother
life's blue mother's day
the tall pines
in their circular nature
looked trippy
on the instagram story
the shadow cast
across the room
by oscillatory motion
sometimes someone
seems to see
the world as i do
but there's no way
to ever know
for sure


MET poem 3

beneath the gleeking sky
in line at the metropolitan
museum of art thinking
i should have microdosed
a makeshift bodega umbrella
barely guarding my brains
i invite the members
of “boys DM”
but it’s too late
i stand in the rain
until eventually
i belong
on public wifi inside
i feel almost
nothing uterine anguish
moderate envy
in gallery 539
a house a home
to escape into
priorities, like everything
to the esteemed
jack & belle linsky:
you’ve made it into a poem
you’ve made it into the MET
with your trove of belongings
i fantasize
about giving my brother
the life i wish i’d had
at his age & beyond
thru parental diplomacy
thru money earned by
undisclosed means
i sport “eleventh hour”
spritzed onto my wrists
& stare unblinking
at two opposing portraits
of gertrude stein
the coat room: my mother
seadeep & smoldering
the lights all candles
beauty as if
never before
ben lerner reverberates
thru my brain
says things like
i attempt evocation
when i tweet
marital transgressions
is the most beautiful phrase
in the english tongue
standing beneath
a formidable sculpture
perseus chopped off
medusa’s head
pass it on
(i peer into a work
not dissimilar to
a doll house
& i think
I believe
in every god
I believe
in every thing)
on the walk home
i feel fond of the florist
on Fulton Street
as i imagine eradicating
all ceremonial gestures
it is windy as shit
for a moment i am gripped
by the fear that
i had somehow
left my journal
at the coffee shop
in high contrast
with bright foreground
a knife pressed to
my throat
syrup viscosity
blood rush
coursing thru me
the sun shines in
at five o’clock
in my past life
i was a painting
scared of nothing
in the dark

image: Doug Paul Case