Post

We outline our bellies with the belly in the plural

not ours. The role of

club to the other’s seal,

and wear it.  A resurrection machine that isn’t womb-built

nor stilted toward cells.

The museum’s stopped closing

all together.  Someone has covered his hands in light and repeats

my light hands, my light hands

assumed light even

before. Burlap otherwise claimed

as the sleep-post denotes

is stashed in some other arctic

not amassed to land.

Outdone by oil jiggling with glisten, the mouth

whose enlightenment jig is up

shows off its small screens. Over which what moves.

What isn’t ensued by viewing and proven

after.  Water muscled by waves

caught in the tide muzzle.  This intended restraint

our tending is the refrain for. Swoosh

that drug-busts muteness again.

*

Whether

Bulge of light, of evening blistered.

Slap the tea against the lamb punctured

through to winter. Like a porch, surrounding

us, and hooves hooking

sop and speed, we nearly have. Nowhere

have we more nearly, though gnashed. Fake your

snow lid. Close your eye of melt. Here is

a fleece self, shelf which

being warps upon, where your smile ops out

time and again. From such shame-raked space,

we did slink. The very leave left by

its own note shoves on.

**

Kristi Maxwell currently lives and writes in Cincinnati. Her first book, Realm Sixty-four, will be published in January 2008 with Ahsahta Press. 

Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/maxwellk_poems.php