Kimberly Ann Southwick
3 poems
**
Near sonnet for missing the train, again
to walk fast is to try. i'm saving grace,
but i'll need, though, to fly, with these clipped wings:
heaven can wait only this long, 'til things
here reject, a tape from its deck, a waste
of sound in the hushed morning. it's a race,
time, death, a chessboard and me. with three kings
to protect, the colors clash. a queen sings:
she hates to wait. but that's in the game's pace,
a dragging crush. we're all pawns sitting down,
silver, orange, white, speeding underground.
**
Earthquakes, and letting go
I.
Chris has a new girlfriend now,
and the shakier things get,
the more J.'s hands are on my hips
or briefly caressing a bruise
on my back that I can't see,
"what's this from?" he asks. I say
that I don't know. It's morning,
when J. watches me or sees
through me, I can't tell which.
Outside, I see a robot and a truck.
I am shocked naked and standing,
peering through the window and our tree,
halfway to my jeans.
He doesn't find his briefs until the man
holding the robot's hand unplugs it,
and he won't believe me
when he's clothed.
II.
The fan ran on empty for weeks,
and the alarm clock never failed
to scream until the sun screamed,
too, and louder.
III.
Our last nights in this house, the sky
has eyes, and the Cambridge wind
is low and lazy, slow
to enter my desert room.
A psychic tells me I am bleeding soon,
and I hope. Still, he hammers a nail
into me, against the wall.
I am pinned there until he stops,
wraps iron arms around me and pulls me out
or pulls out of me, slow, as though,
no matter how hard the words are
in his mouth, he doesn't really want
to let go.
IV.
We sit in his room, debating the inefficiency
current copyright laws will have in the future.
I am on the floor. The only thing left on my bookcase
is the cactus that he gave me for my birthday;
I can't tell if it's dead or not.
Today, at CVS, I bought a pregnancy test,
a bottle of Vitamin Water and two AA batteries.
He goes to the kitchen, downstairs,
to grab me a beer.
**
Near sonnet for Eric
hit the don't panic button in the morn-
ing. baseball is just baseball, professions
of colorly love. blue skies lose the sun's
bright, and we're left light-starved, underground, torn
between murder red and blind white. to mourn
the numbers only begs condensation
from unparticipating clouds. handguns
cocked, pointed; read the morning paper, born
from last night's debauchery. swim
through televisions, map the scores at whim.
**
return to sawbuck 3.1
**
Kimberly Ann Southwick received her BFA from Emerson College in Boston, MA, and in Spring 2009 will complete her MA in English from New York University. She lives in Brooklyn and works at Strand Books. She is the founder and co-editor of Gigantic Sequins: http://giganticsequins.blogspot.com
**
Near sonnet for missing the train, again
to walk fast is to try. i'm saving grace,
but i'll need, though, to fly, with these clipped wings:
heaven can wait only this long, 'til things
here reject, a tape from its deck, a waste
of sound in the hushed morning. it's a race,
time, death, a chessboard and me. with three kings
to protect, the colors clash. a queen sings:
she hates to wait. but that's in the game's pace,
a dragging crush. we're all pawns sitting down,
silver, orange, white, speeding underground.
**
Earthquakes, and letting go
I.
Chris has a new girlfriend now,
and the shakier things get,
the more J.'s hands are on my hips
or briefly caressing a bruise
on my back that I can't see,
"what's this from?" he asks. I say
that I don't know. It's morning,
when J. watches me or sees
through me, I can't tell which.
Outside, I see a robot and a truck.
I am shocked naked and standing,
peering through the window and our tree,
halfway to my jeans.
He doesn't find his briefs until the man
holding the robot's hand unplugs it,
and he won't believe me
when he's clothed.
II.
The fan ran on empty for weeks,
and the alarm clock never failed
to scream until the sun screamed,
too, and louder.
III.
Our last nights in this house, the sky
has eyes, and the Cambridge wind
is low and lazy, slow
to enter my desert room.
A psychic tells me I am bleeding soon,
and I hope. Still, he hammers a nail
into me, against the wall.
I am pinned there until he stops,
wraps iron arms around me and pulls me out
or pulls out of me, slow, as though,
no matter how hard the words are
in his mouth, he doesn't really want
to let go.
IV.
We sit in his room, debating the inefficiency
current copyright laws will have in the future.
I am on the floor. The only thing left on my bookcase
is the cactus that he gave me for my birthday;
I can't tell if it's dead or not.
Today, at CVS, I bought a pregnancy test,
a bottle of Vitamin Water and two AA batteries.
He goes to the kitchen, downstairs,
to grab me a beer.
**
Near sonnet for Eric
hit the don't panic button in the morn-
ing. baseball is just baseball, professions
of colorly love. blue skies lose the sun's
bright, and we're left light-starved, underground, torn
between murder red and blind white. to mourn
the numbers only begs condensation
from unparticipating clouds. handguns
cocked, pointed; read the morning paper, born
from last night's debauchery. swim
through televisions, map the scores at whim.
**
return to sawbuck 3.1
**
Kimberly Ann Southwick received her BFA from Emerson College in Boston, MA, and in Spring 2009 will complete her MA in English from New York University. She lives in Brooklyn and works at Strand Books. She is the founder and co-editor of Gigantic Sequins: http://giganticsequins.blogspot.com
Labels: 3.1, kimberly ann southwick
