Mary Kasimor

blue lips

i have an intuitive self-importance
and self-adoration
and self-consumption
for leather briefcases
and lost time
and short memos
to be is to be headed
like a tulip that loses its beauty
wasted on its life
we found the garden when it was young
i gave it my ego
changing the shape
of my body
it was too blue
it was just two lips of too blue
somedays it talked too much
thinking it was heard
thinking it was important
i left you behind and left you outside
my money made me important
so i changed the weather
i lived on a hill
i lost my peasant heart
the stain was a small fallen shadow
i cruised through hell in a convertible
i eclipsed the sore joints of morning
i was only so important as an incident

the deer

a dazed          anxiety breaks       a    part
from winning    loss       and packed away    
in an empty       box           with the fragment 
of light       cracking                    into fractures
old laws      bleed words                 forcing 
the embroidery            of             red moons 
the knots           make large        x’s 
the heart                 attack                 frightens lost 
consciousness      resumes        the drumming 
a heart         ache destroys          evidence 
and pounds     without syncopation it is a 
boring         eternity      in the dusk rain 
forgets gravity          and marches       in
boots over        heart           beats protect us 
confused appearances     tie      the horizon 
onto          the trees           the deer gracefully 
fall apart          the deer destroy     the evidence
the deer are        graceful with their     hidden 
appearances      never having    seen themselves 
they are frightened       of no one    they wander 
like echoes hidden      trembling     without a radius 
in the            diagram             of broken lines
what        we win                         is never known

black silk

mourning red from all those riches
i am the peasant in the window dancing
to special effects

i don’t know how you do it
all those paintings in primary colors
is that how you see yourself—with big breasts
and tiny feet?

i hang onto life and it ends abruptly

she was once beautiful
once was always
when she was 19 she was the question
and the answer

a felt consciousness is better than most
wearing herself thin as a sparrow
one of many or multi-purpose

i loved you even when you threw yourself away
burning to remain light
burning your toes
you fly out of the fire

the room is hot passion
panting she waits to awaken
as though she has never been born before
she rises untouched

so you continued dancing for the pleasure of night’s
invisible black silk
with only your hips you showed the mountains
how to dance
in their moon of rock and dust
here in the night
you grow old like a moonstone

Mary Kasimor has been writing poetry for many years. Her work has appeared in EOAGH, Big Bridge, 2River, Glasgow Review of Books, Nerve Lantern, 3 AM, Touch the Donkey, Posit, Yew Journal, Otoliths, and Pif Magazine. Her recent poetry collections are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014), Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015), The Prometheus Collage (Locofo Press 2017), and Nature Store (Dancing Girl Press 2017). She has also been a reviewer of many small press poetry collections.
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