Kat Dixon


Whales

I sizzle at the corners,                     invaluable

                to your religion;                                              you stand
christ like in your socks                               one T too many
                                                                                                                for a thief.
I un-develop   /         understand why you come from Buffalo
                              : here are items wrapped in plastic,
                                  a hurricane with my name,
                              all folded dollars spent in the washing machine.

Do       you       feel        collected                  in the same We that brushes

               our gums into nothing
?                                                                               You have seen me as all-elbows
                                           a biography read under the kitchen counter
(how you were a metric ruler and I was on the tip of a tongue)


(too much pink in your skin)

It isn’t that I’d rather be without you.
What keeps us from falling in is a row
of yet baited hooks, instinctively warm
in the manner of objects removed from the body.

The lake grows something coniferous,
whistles green through its fingers
with the information that a mountain has been

withheld. (The R who writes letters and the R who
responds are not always the same : in this
way we cannot be a lake or any rounded
cell.) There is a pitted organ

twined into the dock’s levitated
infrastructure, an unmentioned variation
in the connotations of cycling and recycling.



Kat Dixon gardens short-cuts in Atlanta and may be occasionally found blinking at katdixon.blogspot.com.

Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in blossombones, Indefinite Space, Clockwise Cat, Madswirl, and elsewhere.

 
 
 
 
previous page     contents     next page