Damon Hubbs

Object Poems 1-4/nursery rhyme series


Once a ceremonious hassock in a medieval church in West Sussex/the breeze from the devil’s door 
rustling the patterned hillock of kermes-crushed fabric/now unceremoniously astride a floor scattered 
in crustacea    worms    spinnerets    carapaces     book lungs
                                                                               in the eight-legged salon of Dr. Thomas Muffet 

& when the bumblebees flew out of the woodcuts/a delirious theater of insects through the north door 
and into the garden of curious flowers/little miss, frightened (surely) stepped on a yellow sac of venom      
it splattered 
     like a web on kermes-scaled fabric 
down stubby legs without feet
curdled & away
                      amending method and language.



Eyelet leper squints for fifty-seven children
foxing the padded collar/vamp/throat/tongue foam 
& the sc(old)ing broth, table mints
so many components 
to the empire— 
dominons & territories
     the outer sole      
like a walrus eating helpless oysters from their tiny oyster beds, 
waiting for the other shoe 
the old woman whips 
     the heel, a-loffeing in the eyestay.

Silver Bells & Cockle Shells

Bong   peal   swing   toll   tintinnabulation 
Osedax is the thumbscrew boring the fossilized bo
nes of Plesiosaur                                                  /pulsed cathedral calls/ a gospel of rep
etition rumbling in waves from the Perseus cluster—
deep-diving in nautilus time/the row of maid
ens sway like sticky red cockscombs in the garden      contrary to Henry 
VIII, the thumbscrew turning below the nailbed/flowerbed/bed 
of cockle shells paving the pilgrimage/but who is the inquisitor 
under the cloak/is that you, Ma



I am not short or stout 
                                        but el(lip)tical
     elegantly (arc)
hear me shout
     like the damp petal of a water-lily 
hemispherical, with a belly to hold the world
I am a black byrony tuber shrieking under the gallows
I am the (man)drake root in Joan of Arc’s hand 

handled/like a little heart/in a Danish ballad book/
I am weary of burning through starved silences 
tip me over and pour me “Out 
Damned spot! Out, I say”  
hear me shout

Damon Hubbs lives in a small town in New England. He graduated with a BA in World Literature from Bradford College. When not writing, Damon can be found growing microgreens, divining the flight pattern of birds, and ambling the forests and beaches with his wife and two children. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Book of Matches, The Dawntreader, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Chamber Magazine, Young Ravens Literary Review and others.
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