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Rebecca Lu Kiernan Poems |
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| Rebecca Lu Kiernan |
| BIO: Rebecca Lu Kiernan is the editor of
the print journal, GECKO. Her fiction has appeared in MS. MAGAZINE, SOUTHERN OCEAN
REVIEW, NAKED POETRY, EXQUISITE CORPSE, GARGOYLE, and others, and is upcoming
in ASIMOV'S SCIENCE FICTION and NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. Her collection of poetry,
"Sex With Trees And Other Things Equally Responsive" was released from 2River
Press and can be viewed at www.2river.org |
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It's Saturday Morning,
Can't You Fuck Me
Instead Of The TV?
My love won't ride in your Boxter
Looking destructive as a goat
Eating your seats, cell phone, little
Black book.
Gentler, it camouflages into scenery
A canopy of bent cobalt willows,
An icy bridge in lavender fog
A zig-zaggy tunnel, lights flickering
Off.
You
Zip through my dangerous curves
Too fast,
No backup plans
For the Acme piano on your roof
The forty foot drop into a
Shark infested fishbowl
My high heeled ostrich go-go boots
Smashing you like an accordion
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God Of Thieves
He vomits again on a lime chessboard floor
Soiling his indigo hospital scrubs, aggravating
His football ruined knees, sober enough to feel
The metal pin in his arm from the accident.
One court order, one coma, one suicide attempt
His third try at getting clean. Barring religion
To whom does one pray in the darkest hour?
Sub-genius IQ, master's degree, the Greek god,
Hermes comes to mind. Hermes, the god of
Erections and thieves. He misses compulsively
Ironed crisp white shirts, onyx and diamond
Cufflinks, super bowl ring, gold monogrammed
Brandy sifters, the obedient purr of his silver
Boxter, the lullaby of a woman's somnolent
Breathing, any woman, casual relationships,
Prostitutes, strangers from bars, strangers having
The edge, the hint of mystery on the hesitant lips,
Secrets on the verge of disclosure, impenetrable
Eyes. He misses the thrill of his mother's enthusiastic
Disapproval, the family feel of happy hour at the
Local Irish pub, the bleached blonde woman from
Work with too much mascara and too little self
Esteem. He figures his odds a good fifty-fifty, the
Best so far, worries about the sober self he
Abandoned thirty-one years ago, the little things that
Crowds, the mind numbing crawl of the work bread
Hour, endless details people tell about their boring
Lives, the sound of barking dogs, the ambivalent stare
Of cats, the audacity of tiger lilies in window boxes
Dying of inattention, rotting right under one's nose,
The bubbling sound of aquariums, the icy wind
Fingering the collar of one's sweater. He dwells on his
Most recent love at first sight, a sweet thing he met on
Holiday, eternity band, mermaid cut bridal gown,
Mesmeric introduction to anal sex, all in seven days.
For her, he went briefly, tragically sober, cold turkey.
He remembers the look of loathing as he asked for the
Ring, the same look of disgust in the reflection on the
Stained glass lancet window, the frightful feel of being
Known. He never knew a woman to pack a car so fast,
Having seen more than his fair share of luggage fly.
Hysterical, she took his meat grinder and all of his navy
Socks, left her makeup and all of her shoes.
She.
His mind still insists on using the feminine.
Memories have been stolen selectively, mercifully, the
Brazen clues so easily washed down. This is what will
Be missed, the delicious blur of things, the lifting of
One's arms to fly on the discovery that brittle rules are
Just a dream and happiness is
The stripping of clothes in a forest of razors, the emptying of
Pockets on a runaway train, the gentle company of thieves
Beneath the trap door.
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To The Dog Who Ate A
Bat
In my lap
he is a viscous dog
with broken teeth
foaming at the mouth
bleeding from a jagged
bite on his belly
chasing shadows
chewing his own tail
potentially rabid.
I suspect he will have
to be put down.
I keep fingering the gun
but am disuaded by the
melody of his shrill
miserable whimper, his
unblinking yellow eyes
begging me to love him
or kill him.
So hard to tell the difference.
Not to worry
I usually end up doing
both.
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The Ghost Of Leon
County
As you have long suspected
I never left your house
I haunt your bed
I know you know
I feel you feel me
I walk through you
Everywhere you go
So easy now
Ghost to ghost
You in the canopy
Oaks of Tallahassee
Me on the emerald
Coast.
In a parallel universe
Your carriage comes
For me
And your unblinking
Eyes finger my
Lacey gown
"Every molecule of you
Is mine.", you whisper
Panting.
"All of your tomorrows
Are inside me." I confess
I take you in my mouth
Tearing my beaded veil
My hair unwinding from a
Tight French twist
I swallow every drop of
You and lick for more.
We love like this for
Thirty-one mesmeric years
Or
Before the first anniversary
Both of us cunning, impulsive
Destructive, genius
Each of us loving a good
Riddle,
An apparent murder-suicide
With one missing body
A lipstick scrawled letter
Brilliantly worded with the
Most bizarre poetic clue
We may never know.
When does that license
expire?
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