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| HOME ARCHIVE [Previous entry: "Citizens of Interweb, Send Me Your Throats!"][Next entry: "Three poems by Gordon Massman"] | |
| Two poems by Mara Vahratian | |
05/12/2010 Which is of ingress and egress. A door of course I said and jointed a gate lock. Girlie we're going under. I held the parson at point-blank range, done stole his atlas and compass. Drove this country and got about nowhere. Through the chili festival to red up eyes for and shift mine bridal crown wove from the finest bougainvillea no fib—I look flossie, a paler but that's just as well. The girl with a mind-yer-boots stomp thinks it the tropics the way you sickbed. Where I come from we got chickadees in the winter. Dee. Your landlady took off on a steamer south-sea bound and who else to pile hair a late Victorian. Note the open collar. Cornered, betwixt a hard face, I want to steady on through the toy fair and skin myself something prettier. Perhaps bright gold and the sixteen ways a shaft of light does this or that, looks not kind or tympanum and she is up the to lead and uh, arsenic. When to cream and sugar and kohl comfort, my shift swings at kneecaps. None does right by. Waiting on the rainy season, I want a salad—verdolagas the umpteenth time working themselves in and rocking your arms' work from behind you, curls are sea are too simply not wavy, because they are curls. A season-to-taste handling, that was a big word yesterday and today: another to counter. And update your résumé, the candidate will drywall his teeth; you're taken on so J. Press and new glasses. I remember you saying you wished you'd done more and then the next day I was on the 10, hovered over a TripTik with my father—we are going to IHOP late at night in Amarillo I eat hash browns we are driving through Jackson where Ted Nugent lives. The time difference it throws you over, throws like a girl. I know best of anyone so waiting on your word, tighten that and I will hold you to offices, my own lights. Here in the west we went cataloging—mountain-climber made house (well-uh come on up)—it was a toy-set, green roof planks hearkening back to so much sod and pot cabbage. ---------- Mara Vahratian grew up in Southeastern Michigan but now lives in Tucson, AZ. Other poems from her manuscript-in-progress can be found in Coconut, Drunken Boat, EOAGH, Alice Blue, and Spinning Jenny.
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