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Two Poems

sweet sweet agency

 

the candy here is hard & filled & there is nothing i love more

than to be treasured. if nobody’s watching i just do nothing: lie down

don’t hardly breathe, keep my face in careful stillness not to crease

its cute forgettability. the world is full of edible munchkins & it is my life’s work

to work out how to stay creamy on the inside, how not to sour myself

up with little nips of this or that or otherwise cut holes in myself thru which

to be seen. i must learn to love what i cannot know: the wide bleached anus

on a porn blog, the insane demands of toddlers, the desire for moderation or

slimness of affection, the reasons lovers leave, the trash my cat brings back,

the crack of footsteps in the woods at night, why the killer kills.

i learn it all the hard way but fwiw

i would never snap the rabbit’s neck again

i would rewind i would keep it every time

 

 

honey lamb

 

don’t remember going downstairs saying sorry or

nevermind just the moment of waking not knowing

if it’s dusk or dawn sweating like a hothouse

flower red & wet & pulled up from under & gasping

steeped & steaming like a teabag & drunk on sleep

& beer & sadness blue & dewy as a hothouse

flower & the white white vodka crouching neat

as a bullet low inside me & burning light

like a living laser & i feed it – milk & bread

& honey & lamb – until i’m sticky as an ant

& shining like a hothouse flower thrumming

with the urgent clag of honey blood across

my chest in uneven lubbing – my vodka

heart trembles like a chihuahua & bruises

break across my skin all purple & yellow

as hothouse flowers & the white hot vodka stars

at dusk & dawn glitter inside me i am beautiful

as a hothouse flower when i turn myself on i light

up in twinkling points between the milky

bones of my ribs & pelvis & all the bulbs

i planted in my fat hot head burst into bright

flowers through my eyes & my teeth bleat

like a lamb & i spark myself up into

a column of coloured light & fire myself

off like a gun going downstairs

to say sorry, nevermind

 


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

is the author of a (Les Figues, 2009) and The Institute of Our Love in Disrepair (Bad Press, 2012). She lives in Norwich, where she is a Lecturer in Poetry at the University of East Anglia.

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