Catie Rosemurgy
POETRY
 

Neighbor: Flying after Her

 

At first they took away the pieces of her
that were loose, but we all know once the parts are missing
it’s OK to set the board game on fire.

I saw her yesterday in a tree. Someday
I’ll find words for the dripping. Like rain mixed with teeth.

When I was eight she told me she thought of her mouth
almost constantly. She crawled in and out of it and often got stuck there.
She said when she looked up to the sun it stopped her rotting.
It turned her face into its permanent steel version.
She said what do you want fixed? Leave it open to the world
which is exactly the kind of half dead thing a wound can understand.
She said if you work backwards from the current state of affairs
—the two of us lost for hours in play—one would have to conclude
I was a giant and she was the sack of gold I was owed every day.

A bit of viscera mixed into honey.

She was outside my window perched in a tree when she waved to me.
She always said, why not do the kind of things we wish birds would do?

When something’s falling from the sky, how do you know
it isn’t the very piece you need to complete your face? When it isn’t the piece you need, how do you know your face isn’t better off blown apart? When your face isn’t better off blown apart, how do you know who really loves you?

 


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