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Emily Hunerwadel

Emily Hunerwadel is the author of Professional Crybaby (Poetry Society of America, 2018), selected by Kyle Dargan as the winner of a 2017 Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship. Hunerwadel is the managing editor of Slope Editions and media editor of jubilat. She lives in Western Massachusetts.

By This Poet

3

Peach Woman

She’s saying
I wish there could be a metaphorical
investigative committee
and I’m saying
therapy or a priest?

and, behind us,
the excellence of bright children

and, on our walk home,
the left glove

and I’m saying
I’m fueled by kissing and crimes
against the environment

and she’s saying
the cat shaped depression in this cushion

the necessity of the cat

and I’m saying
I’ve never met a silk sheet I didn’t want to ruin

and, at home,
the fingerprints disappearing
from your grandfather’s coat

the way we carve people out like water through a rock face
the way we read it on their faces
like laundry lines
like clouds

 

Sexy poem to cover my bases

I think a lot about the character everybody wanted to put babies inside of
a lot about cracked statues recovered satellites

I think a lot about voyager
I think a lot about gold
I think a lot about that thing the fork is going into

Are you ever the thing the fork is going into?
Are you ever driving through cotton fields at night
and everything around you is a pillow?

What words are you whispering into my pillow?
What words cast the spell that puts the babies inside of me?
What words make the moon just something good to look at but no place to go?

If I’m looking at my window and hear the hawk, is that the signal?
I think a lot about the longer my hair grows, the farther you are
about your face in my hair

I think a lot about becoming a pill you can swallow
I think a lot about growing my hair into a tent

Lean Into It

I have this disease. It involves perching at parties like some dark owl and slowly shifting into a circling vulture. But I've cracked a couple things like bones against a cliff. For one, every body is a capsule—a collection of lighters, lucky pennies, and pocket lint. And two, there’s no way for me to, reach into you and stretch into your fingertips like gloves. It's all in the synapsing—the way the fluid of your inner ear reflects the swishing of vodka in your stomach. Your evening is an arch, brought to you by the white round pill that carves you out in parabola. Still, there is no hearing. There is the outside world and then the way your ear canals whisper into your mind. All but your voice—which is softest when you have the most to say.