Red-throated hummingbirds spar above
the magnolia. Upwind, something grilled.
The dogs are still alive, yap at whitetail in
the cornfield. The rooster hasn’t chased us
down the driveway, so no one got fed up,
loaded the shotgun. Father’s heart doesn’t
yet float on a pillow of fat. The miscarriage
is years off. Summers, we bleach hair with
lemon, are warm as gold on skin, haven’t
glimpsed the shapes we’ll be hammered in.
Copyright © 2018 by Luiza Flynn-Goodlett. Used with the permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Quarterly West, Issue 93.
The bottom teeth of summer
in winter, braided into
whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen.
Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you
brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness.
Daily, the bottom teeth of summer
in winter, chewing through
ropes, raree show rapunzeled, which is realism
like this that there can be. These are really happened
tell me again stories I will. I will again against it.
Diving bell in a glass of water. Cacti atmosphere.
A perfect piece of pink cake
complicating perfection’s tendency to falter.
Who left it on the counter? Who walked through the room
as though through a composition? The speaker enters quietly,
closes a window, clearing dust from the chair
to sit in the center of the poem, invigorated
with inky awkward blankness.
The bottom teeth of summer
in winter chattering: here’s the moon. Here’s the moon
splashed over two dozen calendars. Here, the kids are grown.
The day is long. The bed, wide as a battleship, waits
in its buoyancy. Imagine a life and live in it. Imagine dead as ever
walking a cut lily back to water. Crazy epic crazier still trying
to put down roots. Summer in winter like a speaker
in water. The loudest electric sound is nothing compared
to the soundest perforation. My paper life. My paper doll.
Your paper boy. Sun sun sunflower seed summer you
can say you love in a poem’s inky blank awkwardness
your paper boy. Sun sun sunflower seed summer you
to the soundest perforation. My paper life. My paper doll
in water. The loudest electric sound is nothing compared
to put-down roots. Summer in winter like a speaker
walking a cut lily back to water. Crazy epic crazier still trying
in its buoyancy. Imagine a life and live in it. Imagine dead as ever
the day is long. The bed, wide as a battleship, waits,
splashed over two dozen calendars. Here, the kids are grown
in winter chattering: here’s the moon. Here’s the moon.
The bottom teeth of summer
with inky awkward blankness
to sit in the center of the poem, invigorated,
closes a window, clearing dust from the chair.
As though through a composition, the speaker enters. Quietly,
who left it on the counter? Who walked through the room
complicating perfection’s tendency to falter.
A perfect piece of pink cake.
Diving bell in a glass of water. Cacti atmosphere,
tell me again stories I will I will. Again, against it
like this that there can be. These are really happened
ropes, raree show rapunzeled. Which is realism
in winter: Chewing through
daily the bottom teeth of summer?
Brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness?
Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you
whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen
in winter, braided into
the bottom teeth of summer.
Copyright © 2013 by Noah Eli Gordon. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on May 31, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.