Carol Guess Poems

 

 

 

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The girls undress over the freeway. So much skin and speed at once, bangles tangled in a tee. You should be happy you’re seeing this, but you spilled coffee on the passenger seat. You’ve never had a passenger. There’s a story you tell: someone buried alive. The pedestrian bridge walks its own plank at night. You drive under the girls; the girls don’t mind. They’re jacking dials to pirate radio, listening for sabers and buried treasure. from under the highway inside a warehouse a bench train station gas gauge rain

 

 

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Outlaw Station

 

My mind was a movie that kept us both company. Trailers showed spoilers. Depending on which friends we asked, one of us wanted to downsize her feelings. I just wanted lights out to last. Birds flew south and you became Ralph. I begged Ralph to drop the italics. You made me promise to alter my syntax. Sometimes I suffered from static attacks, numbers New Government crunched into nibs. Free radio broadcast from rat traps on Key, clandestine wireless tuned to torn sheets.

 

 

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Carol Guess is the author of six books, including Tinderbox Lawn (Rose Metal Press, 2008) and Doll Studies: Forensics (Black Lawrence Press, forthcoming 2012).

 

 

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