subtext of women
ornamentally mature
a butter fly bursts
in the eye’s image
floats through as though
there was a choice
what signified the leather purse
concealing /ed your deep
intentions
I record myself
numbers whirl
around pieces of cheese
loaded with the
greatest minds
playing vid e o games
I thought I was erased
falling into remainders
dumping one of my
selves
with hearts abundant
it marches backwards
synthetic cows
collude for organic
debauchery
stolen theories from lilacs and onions
captured souls
of
consciousness
you came between me
the hills of scatter
love made me act
from cigarette smoke
an
eternal burn
and water divined
my mouth stuffed
with holes
so sorry that I fell a
part
with thoughts reflecting
digital birth
baby cried for symmetry
I sat in my 300 square feet
mind
waiting for precision
crows fell
inside the puddled sun
the sub-
text of women
exercising their forearms
in remote country sides
lonely women
in deep swallowed
nights who
weave blue gowns
their sleep de
toxified with sleeplessness
displacing rows
of jars
of pickled
hearts and brains
in back winter
quietly mind
feels era sure
flutters from too much
cold ground
and gardens of potatoes and beets
plugged into
the thumbs of the
blue skinned people
filed reports of memory red acted
in action chatter
chatter click redeem
brain small
I thought I wanted to be wholly
(holy naught)
myself as what I was
but I was yes
the grainy aftertaste of last winter’s WHEAT
loading violence as someone who shoots
at The fruit
less blossoms
each blossom BRAIN small
no one sews them back onto the trees
no one knows where the blood is stashed
anathema to a circle as a dis -heart
and I the queen of my surroundings
on the planet another fertile place
the wanderer sleeping behind the hills
an all bucolic fast food soured grapes and baptized
a field ad hoc to hoe cadaver ROCK
s
you talk of sex the queen seeks death
and plain faced
THE women
whose bodies undefined
worship god and BIRTH
an inevitable TREE whose silence drops
drips
of blood
I am in this spacy place
turning Blue in december
now it’s ripe with homicide and darker lust
on THE large dark est plain
with cups of WATER poured into rivers
we plant ourselves without baby or placenta
a festival the stars
CLICK imperfectly
in the white porcelain garden
I weave their feet into bloom
their shoes attach
ed
a leash of Spac
e
a blind rose begs for a bush on THE corner
fingering the thin
white layers of s kin
she announces herself dead
__________________________________________________________________________
Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in Yew Journal, Big Bridge, Reconfigurations, Certain Circuits, MadHat, The Bakery, Horse Less Review, Altered Scale, Word For/Word, Posit, and The Missing Slate. She received a Fellowship from US Poets in Mexico for the 2011 Conference in Tulum, Mexico. She was guest editor of Truck (March 2013) and Altered Scale (Winter 2013). She has had several books of poetry published: Silk String Arias (BlazeVox Books), & Cruel Red (Otoliths Books), and The Windows Hallucinate (LRL Textile Series). She will have a new collection of poetry published in 2014, entitled The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books).