Saturday, March 10, 2012
An Amy King Poem
The Moon in Your Breath
Man acts as an antenna for the sun
and then: a trout in the milk,
men who wear kilts after darkness.
Build a bottle of fish with a few dried figs.
when did I become that person?
I mean one who says "plastic glucose"
without wondering what
rotten-sweet is? The one who teenagers
represent? There's a room in your breath
I crawl into, eating the wallpaper's yellow,
looking out for the man on the stairs,
his knife in hand, poise incarnate.
I am your minimum envelope,
your string between tin cans and
cannot stop the talk between us.
In Berlin, they lay buildings on concrete
slabs that look straight back at us.
The windows of the soul seek to err
on the side of humanity. Put a piece of glass
between us for less resistance.
Invite rococo scrawl in heated breath upon it.
The moon appears in a cinched waist.
Stand penance atop her curvature's axis,
above a hill where headstones claw up
through the clouds, pulling their fibers
into blankets across us.
The sleet and silver smiles loom, gauze-thin.
We slip from a reel of translation back
into how we cater to loneliness,
how we move our mouths and mouth
our meals, engorging entrails where
even foodstuffs give off energies.
I am that uncontrollable,
fear in a mesh of moonrock's lapis soup.
We demons are in love and afoot.
As in the primordial diary, time will come
to take the hem in, tether the ether
that dreams become from, and examine
our ankles as the sugar washes over,
disappearing. As with everything,
that's the body he works on. She also
knows honey lasts best in the future.