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.