Lisa Samuels
Two poems
I’m not waiting for anything
I will go unto my fatherless proclivities
and tickle them under their echoes
I will finish
the raimented air languishing
encrusted
Such turpitude is exquisite, a myriad of vanishing lips
pushing back your mouth, your teeth, your tongue
she can
well imagine it
the fumbling on your hands is
mock gesture
range pieces, where it never
never was, believing scattered
where it gathers
the story is an infinitely small one, although
it tells feelingly
barbed wire bristling in the echo
Riddle of the covering cherub
Grim as an obtuse parameter, I have no limbs
a dubious secondary wakefulness, my eye open
made to work in fetching avocation
rolling awkward toward you or picked up
as though a watchful pose could find me dangling
the foster-driven mandates of this dream, long-hoped-for
subcutaneous miracles, what earth
to your availing hands will waken me
to prove an admonition, the orchard of
something natural that artifice becomes
little smiles lest my rueful contents fail
in the air of my suture-self, fond voice
capped in a vortex, not so toggled
gracefully up and down the sky that follows
when I’m let out
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