Three Poems

Amy King

Yes, I give myself a nice time
measuring spoons, Alka Seltzer, baking soda, white
vinegar, hand-in-hand, playing in the downtown
fountain with me and my body processes, like clockwork:
buy one, get checked, buy one, never checked.
The wrath of the kitchen lady
making ice cream spasms,
an owl hopping branch to branch from misery,
his library, and still I give myself the nice
steps he took to drain his lungs of fight, reading books,
booking his looks as if to say, I told you not to give
anyone a-way or tell them how you get along the day,
so many items but nothing in that drawer,
nothing in that drawer, or so the sonnet goes:
corn starch, velvet hand hook, a notch along the shoulder blade,
distinctions that skirt the fleet of dream lives, gashes for hands.
Strangely enough,
I am reminded
of a bill collector
embezzling six hundred pesos
and seven centavos
the same day his wife
leaves him for a seedy dude
called El Capitan.
To get the money he needs,
he turns into strange fiction
nicknamed “The Mastermind”
and imitates a bubble wrap
rubber band person
built on air beds of flies
that sprout when we see
the soul is as fleeting
as breeze. Lice and fleas
hold conspiracy to rob
him of his writhing skin light.
It could be said
the vision is clouded
by continuous projections,
birds tethered to his thighs.
Just who knows exactly what
never succeeds
in mastering the man,
his view, his perception,
his flotational static awash.
He discovers the cash
in a hole built for two,
leaves his wife at the altar
and builds a birth
beyond the cloud of distraction,
the most modern of them all.
We’re pony-late by the roadside
bar with minds disconnected
at the intersection of golden glass,
how you ride me then I
take you down
town for the portrait fair.
I’ll wear the you
with see-through nightgown
stenciled onto doll intestines;
that way you’ll visit me daily
and bottoms up.
The lamb on my palate, mint
tongues share another’s tale:
I walked into the room of my youth
and coursed through the eyes’
corpuscles, atoms that smack
of how delighted I am
to see you beyond the window
that opens like lemon—tart &
lovely to taste you in the belly’s fruit.