Andrew K. Peterson

must i ??? got the morbs                                              breaking ritual                                              with cordials                                                                                           elemental                                                                                           essences                                                   frankincense, argan, myrrh (… again with the myrrh?)                                                   across cupid’s kettle drum                                                   “one morning i waked very early”                                                                               many thousands                                                                            gone without a song                                  the waking source                                                                                 a mirrorlike coolness                                              reversing form &                                                                                           function
OOOOOOOORRRRRRAAANNNNNNGGGEEEEE pulls across the surface of an orange
               obsidian dance                                               ashes rust                                                                            sparks soak
“might we may” meet again head on as solar soldiers soldered to the shoulders of the sphinx
                                              nothing left unopened                                               nothing left                                                                      unsaid   EASTER IN BABEL buttoned to the gold anchors in heavy blue wool allergenic in heat i kneel, mouth an un familiar prayer to mingle with the flow ers sewn to cloches & fascinators unlike my looser pleas pass thru the blood- stained fingerprints pressed above my bed to bless the souls of those i love who live, the ones who don’t and still we love thee too, closer clouds pluck abstract harps or so i’m told, or so i’m bold to build temple in my mind around where violet flags fly above the pride i parachute down with a three-legged dog strapped to my legs if i squeeze too hard he’ll bite, i’ll loosen, we’ll fall into the burning aloe-smear of wax & fats translucent ocean green tower-displaced thresholds so into dawn we lower arrow the clearway gentle in teutonic bloom to calm the hound to calm the hound within as below, so above and i don’t know his name XANTHIUM PARACHUTE she is painting the river that runs through all three worlds: the quiet passion the talented maple cocklebur and bull � to shed tears to shed the past to shed skin to shed water like a duck to shed leaves to shed the blood of thine enemy to shed thy Light on me! � you are everywhere with every heartbeat roaring of an ocean : the sound of a bell ringing : the sound of a conch shell : the roll of distant thunder   THE GREATEST under my bare feet another spring gone past, un- conscious, undefea-THUD! A wounded monarch crash-lands nearby, struggles to regain flight under the weight of its human-sized butterfly costume wings, ruining the last haiku of the season with the ambition and amplitude of its greatness… though my heart, it beats like crazy… and someone’s got to fall
for my parents

A memory lives on the banks of another season, dies as flakes in the mouths of tellers (left unopened, nothing else is said). Commuting home from the bank, a man sits stranded on the highway for hours, sleeps in his car until he’s rescued by The Guard. Far away, in a little town in a little cape on a little hill, a woman waits by the hearth, sleeps on the floor, and keeps the fire warm. At three a.m. a drunk rams a snowbank mistaking the driveway for an on-ramp. On the windowsill, a white cat watches the white sky pelt the earth with its wicked dreams. The great blizzard catches on her tongue.

Andrew K. Peterson is an editor and author of five poetry books, most recently A blue nocturne notebook (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2021). A chapbook The Big Game Is Every Night was mailed to the White House in 2017 alongside other publications from Moria Books’ Locofo Chaps as collective protest. Another chapbook bonjour Meriwether and the rabid maps (Fact-Simile) was part of an exhibition on poets’ maps at the University of Arizona Poetry Center. His poetry has also appeared as part of The Earth Archive exhibition at RISD Museum in Providence. A co-founder/editor of the online lit journal summer stock, he received an MFA in Poetry from Naropa University's Kerouac School. He lives in Boston.
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