Mary Kasimor


more came carrying corn

the first half is gone
the other half
doesn’t work
the joker shoots off people’s
heads or hands
the wage earner needs
an address
the native dies waiting
for an explanation
              we won’t take
care of the garden

the bees return
the internet is restrung
within the range of human
emotion                          religion dotes on us
keeping us small                          keeping us
remorseful           from our cut-
off fingers to the edges
of our poverty
we kept sleeping in the snow
and they kept it snowing

beneath the sky trees roofs on the other
side of the fence
                               more came later
they carry the banners
the corn
rice                     the garden flowers
sowing wild oats
worlds whirl their dervishes
letting go of visibility
hanging over chairs
rose colored silks and tongues
an agony of decision spins
back to knowledge
beneath buildings there live
the lives of swarming ants

                     a place to behold
a place is what you paid for
holding oil and sex
pearls
tea leaves
feathers                bad fortune
whispers
visibility beholds


grace says

but translating devotion
suffusing all day. holiness
distances between religion or
before imagination. polluted.
incensed. statuettes in
laundromats
nothing childish allowed
blank. sin/no name
everything in white. chalk
on the blackboard dovetailed
latin never changing. my god
never understood goddamn mis-
understanding barbie doll. or
jack kerouac or grace slick
or. I missed the chance
for salvation listening through.
close mouthed latin.
insane kissed ecstasy was taken away
latin also. in uterus suspended in water
oh baby not ever complete
or good enough.


apples read

interrupted by play       next to
me in the journey
the length of childhood         i was before
i was breathing
on the sentimental journey
             i wanted
to get out
of stars         as a part of death
was the game
in the cemetery
but death failed again
                 lost dawn
the birds won’t sell this morning
a long tree
marks the way
lost clothing          to the creek
drowned susan
who came back each
spring cow manure apple         cheeks
spring memorizes daffodils memory
standing a                   part lines
of water follow fountains to
                youth
the red cardigan
the highest loss made absolute
the process intuits the impossible
away from statues               just passing
by after nightmares flew and           fewer
than           in stone


The house/the bathroom/freud responds to the poet

Holding pain & relief
in hips,
I won’t talk about clean water or
reading War & Peace.        The remnants
of pine direct me in
this far away place,           my skin
does not reflect my dignity,
down & out in toilets.
The weight of body pulls
me down to laugh, to cry silence
excruciating.
You are staring at me;
I am six months old losing
self-discovery,         body’s pain,
humorous shit. The elders squint.
Look inside; the river’s vacancy
has a place here, the numbness
of spirit in plastic porcelain.
What decides who is real?
Dying elders may still
be alive twice in the mirror:
body’s endings         raw selves,
like silk.


Fame in the bedroom

The bedroom contains the closet,
closest to my bed between
the fleshy/flash of mirrors.
I double the seashore of lavender
in the drawers, and black nylon
bras I hide behind.
Secrets circulate under
the rug, climbing out
over the lights of purple
midnight meandering screams.

Drop the earrings. Don’t escape.
I will starve after the door closes.
Newspaper reporters try to save
me, offer marriage, offer
the moon, sell it to the masses
to gain admittance.
The key is on the left; I won’t
let it out. The sounds of your cd
try to seduce—but cannot—
the silent cricket. She needs to sleep.


all those years/the livingroom

you look out the window         I look
at the television screen          crawling out of perfect teeth
the babies teethed and born             without the movie version
the trembling light fattens (the atmosphere)     at 3:00 am still
between all that               no doubt a new life
at 7:00 pm three years ago the soup
burned/a horrible mess      the neighbors observed
from outside               tame trees and windows
obscuring obvious life           a somnambulist wandering
through with hands and ankles            soft apples
in a bowl from the year before        a stifling lightness
dogs never despair         floors hum      that fight we had
the dogs watched                     bellies inert on flower
splashed august           correct perceptions if
the elders would judge         us as spoiled and imperfect
they want to tell          us about the past walls and corners
chicken          little glorying in the dark          all those years



Mary Kasimor has been published in both online and print journals, including Lungfull!, Volt, Prosodia, Gutcult, Moria, BlazeVox2k3, Word/for Word, Bird Dog and Prosodia among others. She is currently working on a chapbook (still untitled) that will be published by BlazeVox Books.

 
 
 
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