4 Poems by Karissa Morton
White Lies
With the whir of lacerated lips and whispers of black holes,
my legs fade to dusk, tree branches opening to reveal
children like
fawns.
Call the sky an umbrage, label the deer in ditches guardrail.
Tell me of ribbons and yarn, of a mise en skin washed in
sepia or
gold or
of snakes that whisper across blades of grass, answers to tiny
kestrel
prayers.
It’s something like the crush of the father,
a hallucination wherein my thighs become cherub cheeks
drying drops of ------
dust storms
ripping through the sky
and dropping like bullets into a bird’s nest
where
twelve apostles are forever departing, bowing against the callow
wind of
lust.
Thoreau on Polar Shifts
i write this for a hopeful, fictional boy
whose name might have started with a "b,"
my little votive in shadow who, after two months,
splintered into omission.
if he was real, his bed would be tightened,
comforter like the night sky awaiting me, the moon.
but instead, he carries his lonesome walden soul
in an animal cracker box,
and i beat my lace-hinged wings
against the thoughtless gale,
tiny capillary fountains blooming in my eyes,
praying that solar flares will kill us both
as we watch the apocalypse
from a beachfront seat
and wonder if the house of cards we built
was called jerusalem.
A Xanadu of Flames
my breath glides across your chest and blossoms there,
threading buds one by one into your clavicle.
a sparrow flies into the tiny house of my body,
your fingertips constructing a nest in the lacy curve of my hipbone.
***
the sound of ladybugs tapping the window
is the metronome to our breath and thrust,
and my fingers weave like basket,
clutch like keyhole respite to your hair.
***
but if you rub your brow and push me away,
will i fall toward the maudlin periphery of your bed
where i am unable to sleep
until you accidentally roll into me?
***
(the wind was always insignificant,
but we see now that it's hard to escape
the forest
when it burns.)
Wax & Feather
folding birds from notebook paper,
the boy gathers margin-winged sparrows
that glide like icarus,
jagged perforations singed
brown with phosphorus
and the profile of his mother's face.
he calls out in echo and handmade horn,
fingers tipping at the bridge of his nose,
eulogy for parchment
floating like a rebel sailor
on birdbath's surface.
if the boy cradles feathers full of water
in his tiny hands,
can he nurse it
with nectar of lips and tears?
With the whir of lacerated lips and whispers of black holes,
my legs fade to dusk, tree branches opening to reveal
children like
fawns.
Call the sky an umbrage, label the deer in ditches guardrail.
Tell me of ribbons and yarn, of a mise en skin washed in
sepia or
gold or
of snakes that whisper across blades of grass, answers to tiny
kestrel
prayers.
It’s something like the crush of the father,
a hallucination wherein my thighs become cherub cheeks
drying drops of ------
dust storms
ripping through the sky
and dropping like bullets into a bird’s nest
where
twelve apostles are forever departing, bowing against the callow
wind of
lust.
Thoreau on Polar Shifts
i write this for a hopeful, fictional boy
whose name might have started with a "b,"
my little votive in shadow who, after two months,
splintered into omission.
if he was real, his bed would be tightened,
comforter like the night sky awaiting me, the moon.
but instead, he carries his lonesome walden soul
in an animal cracker box,
and i beat my lace-hinged wings
against the thoughtless gale,
tiny capillary fountains blooming in my eyes,
praying that solar flares will kill us both
as we watch the apocalypse
from a beachfront seat
and wonder if the house of cards we built
was called jerusalem.
A Xanadu of Flames
my breath glides across your chest and blossoms there,
threading buds one by one into your clavicle.
a sparrow flies into the tiny house of my body,
your fingertips constructing a nest in the lacy curve of my hipbone.
***
the sound of ladybugs tapping the window
is the metronome to our breath and thrust,
and my fingers weave like basket,
clutch like keyhole respite to your hair.
***
but if you rub your brow and push me away,
will i fall toward the maudlin periphery of your bed
where i am unable to sleep
until you accidentally roll into me?
***
(the wind was always insignificant,
but we see now that it's hard to escape
the forest
when it burns.)
Wax & Feather
folding birds from notebook paper,
the boy gathers margin-winged sparrows
that glide like icarus,
jagged perforations singed
brown with phosphorus
and the profile of his mother's face.
he calls out in echo and handmade horn,
fingers tipping at the bridge of his nose,
eulogy for parchment
floating like a rebel sailor
on birdbath's surface.
if the boy cradles feathers full of water
in his tiny hands,
can he nurse it
with nectar of lips and tears?
