Two poems by Halee Kirkwood
Frame by frame the morning—
feline tongue lapping meringue batter
hock of sunlight sweetly eroding winter’s
stubborn fangs, this spring the sense
of drowning suddenly everywhere—
a witch’s ring of teeth constellating my shoulders
each bruise a reminder of our bodies
after we’ve forgotten each other but not
the morning—how you ask me to scrub the dishes
in the sink’s messy patina, delicious the feeling
of helpfulness, of a kitchen that is not your own,
shucking skeins of rot from scallions and your hair
dark handful of seaweed tossed across your neck,
the invitation not to rush—
the sausages you share nameless and indescribable
for animal or cut, the unforgettable fat’s
bass tumbling down my throat—how I want
a butchered wickedness—a question regarding how much
lubrication one human can safely ingest in a night or
over a lifetime—petroleum singeing my labia
but a balm across my mouth little motor
on overdrive—and when I finish
marveling at my own body
that fucks someone who in the morning
finishes baking a batch of meringues—squirts
of raspberry jam in the center like a flower’s
inflorescence—hands shaping egg whites
and nipples to neat petals—whose hands I’ll maybe
never suck again— when there’s nothing left
for me to help with I’m abandoned to this 11 a.m. dreaming,
recognize finally the neighborhood, hum of traffic
of fleeing to or from the city. In being so unnecessarily
consumed, you might find the meaning in meaninglessness.
A late-night desert warm from the oven whose name
you can no longer recall, sugar lingering
a moment past sublimation.
We’ve come across a village
of cardinals. I fall so often,
my first time with snowshoes
buckled to my feet, I sink like
a twig into fresh snow. More
cardinals than I’ve ever seen
in my life roost and ruffle
their breasts on the edges of
an unidentified brush,
red paint slashing the sky
when we approach. Love is not
a priority for me anymore, so
I resolve, cherry red and fading
into thickets quiet as
an unused knife. That
is what happens when you come
too close. I could compare
the cardinals to roses, the park
just heavy with them. With
Valentine’s day passed,
it’s unbearable to think
myself the heartbreaker this time.
The memory of a little dog
sleeping against my thigh,
how I never succumbed
to her licking my face.
A lover’s evaporate trapped
by my winter layers. Yes, I have
regrets. When we whisper
our desires to the red pines
her bark sheds in my hands,
difficult admitting to the harm
of a tree. We sit at the base of her,
asses searing through the snow.
How delicious my own thumb’s
compression like bruises
on the ripened earth, the fruit
far away from here and now.
I wish someday a cardinal
holds still for long as it takes
to etch out of light a photograph.
Or at least stretch my hand out
in a gesture of welcoming, learn how
to keep a shivering person
out, and still move an eye
on your color.
