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Gold River Neck Riddle

Catie Rosemurgy
What is red and singing on the inside, gray and moaning on the outside?
(The opera house)

What is green, damp, and stuck between the forest's teeth? 
(The doctor)

What drags on the floor and catches fire? 
What reveals the girl's legs while destroying them? 
(The afternoon sun) 

What grows tall, blocks the sun, loses everything, 
and still darkens the field? (The young man
looking for the idiot boy.)

What spreads out by simplifying further? 

What (smoke) was here? 
What (government)?

What saves and ruins? 
(The museum)

What blooms amongst the rocks?
(A ship)

What opens wide and explains why?
(A burning window)

What is ill-advised in the new world?
(What ends at the treeline.
What split like a lip into two less viable possibilities.)

What shimmers on our bodies when we are warm?
(Our historic burning) What lines both the inside of our coats 
and the inside of our mouths?
(Our current burning)
What is the real museum?
What is wet and is yet a wick?
(The tongue, which becomes colorless over time. 
Which flakes.)

What is the souvenir we bring home from the flood?
(Our hair)

On what bent and drinking animal are we the pattern?  
(The land)
(The river)
(The narrow) The trees 
were some stony being's fingers. 
We walked easily between them to the wet edge of its face.

Copyright © 2012 by Catie Rosemurgy. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2012 by Catie Rosemurgy. Used with permission of the author.

Catie Rosemurgy

by this poet

poem
The arch in the bridge. The moment of architecture. 
The island where you lost your mother's keys. The photo she sent
of someone who looks like her walking to the point 
where the land becomes reminiscent of dissolving of flesh. 
The trees stamped onto our minds like traumas 
are supposed to be. The frightening
poem
Pretty girl. The weather has knocked her down again
and given her to the lake to wear as a skin.

Why am I always being the weather?
There were days in the winter
when her smile was so lovely I felt
the breathing of my own goodness, 

though it remained fetal and separate.
I was a scavenger who survives

with a
poem
               1

Thank god he stuck his tongue out.
When I was twelve I was in danger 
of taking my body seriously. 
I thought the ache in my nipple was priceless. 
I thought I should stay very still 
and compare it to a button, 
a china saucer, 
a flash in a car side-mirror, 
so I could name the ache either