"Cozy Up" by Perrin Clore Duncan
Three poems by June Gehringer
Jenny talks about massage.
She says, “You have to
lean into the other
person,” and I realize
I love you like massage.
I press myself
into the space
which is so briefly you,
which tomorrow will be air,
which could be monsoon,
will never hold me
as you do.
I press myself
into your folds, the seam
between you and the world,
your skin which breathes
the sun and air
and sings like silk
in winter dark.
I love you like monsoon,
like sideways rain
I can’t escape,
my umbrella
inside-out,
my ballcap
down the street,
my body
wet and gold
in sun and rain
of you.
She says, “You have to
lean into the other
person,” and I realize
I love you like massage.
I press myself
into the space
which is so briefly you,
which tomorrow will be air,
which could be monsoon,
will never hold me
as you do.
I press myself
into your folds, the seam
between you and the world,
your skin which breathes
the sun and air
and sings like silk
in winter dark.
I love you like monsoon,
like sideways rain
I can’t escape,
my umbrella
inside-out,
my ballcap
down the street,
my body
wet and gold
in sun and rain
of you.
Riana Campground No. 34
Campground 34 is our Brokeback,
except nobody dies.
No jawline cowboy boots,
the Earth will give us back
to each other and ourselves.
Not one of us will ever die.
We are far beyond that now.
Campground 34 is our Brokeback,
except nobody dies.
No jawline cowboy boots,
the Earth will give us back
to each other and ourselves.
Not one of us will ever die.
We are far beyond that now.
The universe collapses
like an old balloon,
stretched around
some sandstone in my fist.
I lay down
to kiss the Earth.
She tastes like
my spit.
The second stomach
of the cow
on the mountain
in the road
is filled with rocks
like this.
I am filled
with rocks like this
where I will die
on Earth,
where pain will die
on Earth.
Revolution is more
a question of metabolism
than it is of means:
the simple act
of drawing breath
marries earth to blood to air,
that they might forgive
each other and
themselves.
like an old balloon,
stretched around
some sandstone in my fist.
I lay down
to kiss the Earth.
She tastes like
my spit.
The second stomach
of the cow
on the mountain
in the road
is filled with rocks
like this.
I am filled
with rocks like this
where I will die
on Earth,
where pain will die
on Earth.
Revolution is more
a question of metabolism
than it is of means:
the simple act
of drawing breath
marries earth to blood to air,
that they might forgive
each other and
themselves.
June Gehringer is the author of "i don't write about race" (CCM 2018) and "i love you it looks like rain" (Be About It 2017). She tweets @unlovablehottie. For solicitations, inquiries, or to send large sums of cash, email [email protected].
Perrin Clore Duncan, from Oklahoma, graduated from DePauw University in May 2017 with a B.A. in Economics and Studio Art. Her work has been shown and published in Ireland, the United States, and worldwide through online publications. Perrin currently pursues her M.F.A. at the Burren College of Art in Ireland.
Visit her on instagram at @perrincloreduncan.art or at her WEBSITE.
Visit her on instagram at @perrincloreduncan.art or at her WEBSITE.
