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out of it p a g e f i v e |
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Poetry copyright1999-2001, Christine Hamm Amorous Morsels Come in my mouth, He said (my heart like a starling beating against a window) His face beneath me I became liquid gave birth to a new universe hot milk poured from me I saw a river behind eyes rolled back in my head A kiss so deep I slaver my skin loosens and peels back like the skin of a well-cooked pheasant. I am boiled I am a boiled bird, boiled meat, flesh loosening and floating away in the bubbling water the boiling water of your palms on my hips the boiling heat of your mouth drinking me deeply, drinking and me, floating away. A Promise Some Thing warm is overflowing my cupped hands: animal, vegetable, or vegetable oil. The weather is foul. It spits in my face. Domestic fowl, it is said, dream almost continually of long sea voyages. Flight is involved in these. I see a black mountain, backlit. Purple clouds boil at the peak. Lightening makes the usual lightening forms. Felix the page snaps on the table lamp and all is revealed as a pathetic backdrop. Alarum. Exit stage left. This armor is much too heavy and sometimes, lacks poise. The fog gets caught up in its own dilemmas, and often, lacks concentration. The approaching headlights make one want to be a deer, caught in the approaching headlights. Applause. Exit stage right. We return in velvet capes and bow down on one knee, although the clapping in the gymnasium seems less than enthusiastic. Perhaps the mandatory lilac gloves are responsible, although one could hope for a little more politesse from such a gaggle of hatted librarians. Spring (again) and as usual it hurts... Flowers like the mouths of dangerous children. The wind is cold and too tired of itself to be bitter. The stench of drowning earthworms fills wet streets. Hands and feet and foreheads are white and stupid with cold and wet and mud. Inside the hospital a white dwarf (the dying woman) stretches up from her pillow to whisper stories about making and selling paper flowers "when I was a goil." Tiny Indian girls flow out of the thunderbird. Lime and teal satinslashpolyester frocks foaming at the sleeves and hems with plastic lace. They are made up like movie stars, Egyptian eyed. Into the one-hour photo studio with the cracked pane, they flower sidestepping the cloud reflecting puddles not even giggling, holding their breaths, lifting shiny shoes like dainty deer hooves, their ankle socks flashing like the breath of stars. |
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