you look good in green Dream about you throwing me out of the window. There are flowers, we are twin brothers. Bodies transparent, looking for the moon In the same place it was when I fell asleep. We forget to keep the windows open and I hear you in the kitchen, asking nothing of me. Informal existential crisis, deer on my front lawn. Hand slapped to floorboard, big soft red flowers falling. Clothes to wash, knives on dinner plates. Mutts asleep in driveways. The vines growing into my skin will leave green scars, you’ll rip them from my back and plant them in our yard. Head down in the shower, Water into, window falling out. greeting shape I rest two fingers in the ditch of your clavicle, trough no animal will eat out of. I haven’t cancelled our electrical bill, the new couple living there sitting in our light. I tent, weigh you down at the corners. The wet towel I used to soak up the water is still wet. Birth a mattress, teeth plastic away from foam. Bed opening across the floor. I crack open my chest. Ants cover my lungs, mourning me out of body into the wire sculpture of a bowl. poem 27 Silence never sickening ornamental cock The temperate, educated crown of words you wore when you fucked me Circular and sloping, wearing boots mostly scars greying along with your hair I asked to see the beige belt you bought across the street Buoyant, quick to mend asking me if I was ashamed to be seen kissing a man Your recovery the color of mud Screaming at your pussy Your pussy screams back buildings fall in slow-mo Standing on a chair pouring smoke onto my hair from a glass Keep your self above the surface use your body I taught you how to swim tiny whale, slow moves Water doing nothing to my desire I am being alone Darkness splits itself Sitting across from you Smashing lemon into the bottom of the cup We have great timing I ask someone to tell the truth, they do On your knees hitting marbles Outside to take a phone call Headed back to the Midwest, or California Telling me you are so open convincing whatever is closing in to please take it’s time Natalie Briggs is a queer poet and artist living in Melbourne, Australia. A graduate of the IPRC poetry program in Portland, OR., she is the author of the self-published chapbook, ‘the burial is polite’. An undergraduate at RMIT in Melbourne, she is concentrating on long distance love, video work, and friendship. Say hello: [email protected], @natalieebriggs
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