Julie Doxsee
8 poems
**
Dear Poet
The ides of September
ghosted me until I flew
back from my house
on an origami swan you
left on my knee when I
drifted. When you said
it’s crowded in my little
world I unlocked my
cedar chest, took out
little globes by the hand-
ful & with them filled
my cheeks. You filled
my cheeks with tears,
remembering to touch
my hand when the spill
of ice cubes filled
the room, snowing us in.
**
Dear Sky
Streams, waterfalls, & little
moon-side cacti spill from
a box lined with lightning. Close
by there is path leading to a huge
hole in the ground that looks like
the paradise you hallucinated
when the shoreline kicked
your ceiling. I used to
enjoy the disarming flash
you, at sunup, put in my eye
& the smell of smoke
you, through the canyon, exhaled.
Now balloons filled with
misread nightmares
swim up, searching for
the hand I can’t close
my verb around.
**
Poet Tour
On the drive away
from the mountain, a walnut
appeared on my shoulder &
you questioned the omen, not
noticing my wing. Squirrels
again mistook me for a tree & left
a piece of real tree behind
I said. You said I should
call somebody about that,
dialing my house for me.
The statue of an angel
answered & said
in an hour according
to my numbers the
wing will fall right off.
**
Sky Tour
I stuck my licked
finger in the wind &
waited for a
you-bound breeze.
The breeze blew
me down & I
flung an envelope
in the air. It will
fall from you
very soon. In
the envelope is
an airplane. In
the envelope is
a sturdy boat. In
the envelope are
soap bubbles
whiskey fumes
a new haircut
& some angels.
**
Dear Phenomenon
I took a fishing expedition in a little
yellow slicker I dreamt up when I was
five, handed you the list. You checked
it & your watch & said you had to
roll. Did you notice that round piece
of air eavesdropping like a blank
CD, the normal clothespin
becoming a pair of legs on tiptoe
before our eyes? Where did you
go when you hung a left? You
left vapor trails I tried to
tornado with my hands. I stayed
for an hour in the doorway
thinking of the hours I vacuumed
clean for you, now filled with
waterless fish.
**
Dear Metal
About the scissor collection.
Loose wingspans of you are
wall-birds not even close to lying
cupped in a hand, still there is
an unspread finger triggering-
open the fear of cool rings.
My necklace is buzzing, or is
a tripwire of pins &
needles behind the lightning.
The film is introduced by
a piece of paper you
ran your edge over,
a swept drape of hair
you razed. If you lasso
this finger later in the day
I will slip you off.
**
Phenomenon Tour
Ennui saw me on the plane
& recognized my hat from
years ago, mixing many moments
of long-time-no-see into
one comet-lit afternoon. Have you seen
the film of the raindrop rolling
up the dollhouse door? I will
put it on your lip as a souvenir. Last week
the leaves died, leaving ghosts the birds
hide behind. Other tailless animals
stare deeply at the comet till
it splits into twin balloons. You’d think
this rain would turn falling fire
to ghosts & resurrect those leaves.
**
Metal Tour
Videotape the stone's surface
to catch the hole it left behind.
This is your way of testing
each slipperiness decorated by
bombs & touches. Sit in this
white leather chair that looks
like a white leather chair &
foot-rest your machine. Migratory
songbirds are now swept away
by the dozen by the dozen
false winds & you saw their
wing explosions through the
lens. Why aren’t you a wing
explosion? Why aren’t you
a lens? You are a goblin
of the mines whose name
was handcuffed &
hauled off. You are the spoon
on a cooking show I
smelled in my dream. You
are an old bolt drilled into
a cliff that was given
to my mother long ago.
**
return to sawbuck 1.3
**
Julie Doxsee lives in Denver, Colorado, where she is pursuing a PhD in English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver. Her chapbook, The Knife-Grasses, was recently published by Octopus Books, a new press launched by the editors of Octopus Magazine. Other forthcoming publications include a chapbook, Fog Quartets (horse less press), and a book, Undersleep, (also from Octopus Books, Winter 2007/2008).
**
Dear Poet
The ides of September
ghosted me until I flew
back from my house
on an origami swan you
left on my knee when I
drifted. When you said
it’s crowded in my little
world I unlocked my
cedar chest, took out
little globes by the hand-
ful & with them filled
my cheeks. You filled
my cheeks with tears,
remembering to touch
my hand when the spill
of ice cubes filled
the room, snowing us in.
**
Dear Sky
Streams, waterfalls, & little
moon-side cacti spill from
a box lined with lightning. Close
by there is path leading to a huge
hole in the ground that looks like
the paradise you hallucinated
when the shoreline kicked
your ceiling. I used to
enjoy the disarming flash
you, at sunup, put in my eye
& the smell of smoke
you, through the canyon, exhaled.
Now balloons filled with
misread nightmares
swim up, searching for
the hand I can’t close
my verb around.
**
Poet Tour
On the drive away
from the mountain, a walnut
appeared on my shoulder &
you questioned the omen, not
noticing my wing. Squirrels
again mistook me for a tree & left
a piece of real tree behind
I said. You said I should
call somebody about that,
dialing my house for me.
The statue of an angel
answered & said
in an hour according
to my numbers the
wing will fall right off.
**
Sky Tour
I stuck my licked
finger in the wind &
waited for a
you-bound breeze.
The breeze blew
me down & I
flung an envelope
in the air. It will
fall from you
very soon. In
the envelope is
an airplane. In
the envelope is
a sturdy boat. In
the envelope are
soap bubbles
whiskey fumes
a new haircut
& some angels.
**
Dear Phenomenon
I took a fishing expedition in a little
yellow slicker I dreamt up when I was
five, handed you the list. You checked
it & your watch & said you had to
roll. Did you notice that round piece
of air eavesdropping like a blank
CD, the normal clothespin
becoming a pair of legs on tiptoe
before our eyes? Where did you
go when you hung a left? You
left vapor trails I tried to
tornado with my hands. I stayed
for an hour in the doorway
thinking of the hours I vacuumed
clean for you, now filled with
waterless fish.
**
Dear Metal
About the scissor collection.
Loose wingspans of you are
wall-birds not even close to lying
cupped in a hand, still there is
an unspread finger triggering-
open the fear of cool rings.
My necklace is buzzing, or is
a tripwire of pins &
needles behind the lightning.
The film is introduced by
a piece of paper you
ran your edge over,
a swept drape of hair
you razed. If you lasso
this finger later in the day
I will slip you off.
**
Phenomenon Tour
Ennui saw me on the plane
& recognized my hat from
years ago, mixing many moments
of long-time-no-see into
one comet-lit afternoon. Have you seen
the film of the raindrop rolling
up the dollhouse door? I will
put it on your lip as a souvenir. Last week
the leaves died, leaving ghosts the birds
hide behind. Other tailless animals
stare deeply at the comet till
it splits into twin balloons. You’d think
this rain would turn falling fire
to ghosts & resurrect those leaves.
**
Metal Tour
Videotape the stone's surface
to catch the hole it left behind.
This is your way of testing
each slipperiness decorated by
bombs & touches. Sit in this
white leather chair that looks
like a white leather chair &
foot-rest your machine. Migratory
songbirds are now swept away
by the dozen by the dozen
false winds & you saw their
wing explosions through the
lens. Why aren’t you a wing
explosion? Why aren’t you
a lens? You are a goblin
of the mines whose name
was handcuffed &
hauled off. You are the spoon
on a cooking show I
smelled in my dream. You
are an old bolt drilled into
a cliff that was given
to my mother long ago.
**
return to sawbuck 1.3
**
Julie Doxsee lives in Denver, Colorado, where she is pursuing a PhD in English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver. Her chapbook, The Knife-Grasses, was recently published by Octopus Books, a new press launched by the editors of Octopus Magazine. Other forthcoming publications include a chapbook, Fog Quartets (horse less press), and a book, Undersleep, (also from Octopus Books, Winter 2007/2008).
