C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

The water has gathered roots; Dirty winds...; I f I f i n d y o u...

By: Kristin Withers


The water has gathered roots


My dear & broken heart

Sea anemones are as kind as you


Gorgeousness (borrowed from illegibility [learn])

in theory (seers scry)

resembles you (as a little girl without

comment or excuse);


In (a hamper & she has fallen)

us there is (asleep)

truth


I call a halt to the

exhaustive (twitching before

a prim display)


Am I to see you evermore?


Answering to the improbable definition


Today, at work,

the agonies my back contains;


I am going to remove this from you very slowly


(resistless) shade of blush in reverie

just see



think in mission, witness.


Can you feel the claw that claimed you?


Tang of dewy night; a fixity

rankling — your compass of this design


Here is the bullshit morning turned brilliant

& sloppy halfawake words to you


My windows span my

walls & today

it isn’t pain — to anyone


but which way


tearing metal goat I am physically ill

(I would put it aside awhile & dwell)


in different air

(I would sooner be his end)


drank in heavy sleep slime — the nature

of a wreck knocking thanks

out of your preachings


Oh, the palates of your hips

my lisping palms tell it

was the forest

where your candles went


Light passes through

the chalk of a cheap lemonade

electrifying barking woodwinds






Dirty winds covering honeys covering worlds where the honey doesn’t stick


It began with a cloud of gas & dust

When who was talking of false Prada in Marfa

( which was what triggered the collapse )



clementines & driving; torrential

downpour, barefoot stepping as if for the first time breathing.

The organic horizon was warm and churning itself.

Conversationally, the cement steps of which they sat, were waning – but through a tiny choreography, to her, an opening smaller than it ought be (being as she sat at an angle from the corner of the patio) of fixtures wrapped about the perimeter of the overhang was a finite exposure of sunlit trees — autumnal aperture to some golden dream.

( from warm thumbs, crumbing dough to a duck )

Making a point to not survive the scene,

they, coalescing strangers, did. His breath

a raspy laugh rubbing itself, animal, into night.



to remain stable — gravity

pushes back providing a resistance that gives form


If you drive & smell the border & warm rice & rust crying

Where we understand each other as chemical identities


shirtdress, panties, slip; cup of quarters & a cigarette






I f I f i n d y o u w i l l I k n o w y o u




It is a matter more than maintenance

This false Prada in Marfa




the dog was sleeping


when you left instead of showering. Grabbing the better of black


shirt dresses, currency

& for two nights the entire world was coldness &

( the grey rainbow of a fog-dogged moon )

bitingly vital I found feigned sanctuary in the bench vacancies of wiped down diner pews —

mangy cat pittering about

bokeh the pleasing qualities endowed to light allowed through an out of focus aperture

Still they talk of false Prada in Marfa



A diseased & greyscale factory lounged about my dreams, manufacturing


the clouds – whereby resistance can, in fact, surpass

equilibrium so that the cloud collapses into itself



( m a s s a g e m a s s a g e t h e f a l s e you were caught )

the thought never stops — symbols, signs,

intentionality — gallant box, will you be

known for what you are n o t




I am caught, praying

to that water witch in

warbling cusp — to be

so far pitcher rich is

sin — N O W P O U R




Oh my serous seeing



They no longer talk of false Prada in Marfa

No? So; a boiling

the near home horizon?

home shirt dress,

home artichoke — but

no cheshire

deigning the downpour —

precisely, it

is grabbing at the better

of our other rooms

— behind his door —

Oh my serous seeing — D R I N K

Oh, I know what is going on — D R I N K

( drown me in your frame )




always snowing there is a war outside her cure beginning with a cloud of gas and dust standing on the hard wood floor in barefoot & nervous gloves — trigger trigger trigger the collapse

( snag our hips )

but! oh charming


When he would tie up his shanked silvering hair, I’d dream sex with tigers

( so many rooms to visit with so many privileges )





everybody starving but

who made it disposable


then highly holy begged


feed us & we will speak

then nobody even talks


to one another anymore


excite wisely, false martyr


you’re P O U R I N G


water is pouring out wine

when we are in drought &


you can’t see that it is hot

if ( it was true ) when ( it was false ) we don’t talk there is really false Prada in Marfa





Kristin Withers is a poet currently residing in the Pacific Northwest. She has been an industrial sewist, coffee roaster, bookseller, realty & teaching assistant. Disciplined in analytic philosophy her interests focus on epistemology & the metaphysics of consciousness. Her poetry appears at Chiron Review, High Shelf Press, The Inquisitive Eater, & elsewhere. She is currently working on several concept collections.

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