Two Poemsby Kristi Maxwell
will you deposit yourself in
for fruitful—you carry your cloak like a dead child
no mouth will navigate teeth to harbor.
We’re forced into grave positions the way animals barned
during wind’s high-pitched whine that wins the ground’s kitty
of tree and tree-whittled houses.
How can I reconcile the asylum you treasure in your mouth
for its crazy indictments—that you said that. You disembowel
my vowel-constructed vow. Here kisses what you point to
to imposter here. Thus the appeal of gloves
you pimped off other hands. A boat toward an orgy of waves
outranks anchor, so we are far from the field
green detects and takes. Marked card of a field.
We’ll catch nothing this way.
Sarcophagus : In the cul-de-sac
he curls up
a flesh drop of dew when viewed
from high enough—
the wind yanks the sky out
of place like a word stressed
a syllable too soon so
marooned far from the island of
his understanding, though debris from my boat
floats by. There he is
waving like a capital letter—my arms loosen
from my body like string and bring my hello out
as highlights are said to eyes
if hair is dark enough
for an iris to interpret as sea
exempting of course night’s involvement
where shadows are lonely for the home
light makes. His tongue reaches in my mouth like California
and we argue shoreline
while sand breeds jellyfish
in tear-ducts he tunnels clean.