| Some Poems by G. Keilan Rickard conditional hex philogyny, misogyny, my hairy hare-lipped heraldry. she spoke to me of effigies and lightly lacquered filigrees. in spite of me what right has she to calumn’ate incessantly? if only she were thirty-three I’d whistle wicked wifery. body dysmorphosis I’m ready to be genetically re-engineered. I volunteer to have my sternum extended— support for more pectoralis major. Break my vertebrae, hollow my bones, and place my arms gently in plaster casts, held in place behind my back by complex pulleys and cables. Give me the symmetry of latissimus dorsi pulling evenly on my new wings, crafted from the avian portion of my DNA. ton oreiller The slightly sweet smell of yellowed downy pillow with its blue-striped shell re-members the times we nestled close together, buried faces poked stripped-naked feathers, threading themselves deftly through pored, weathered fabric. Rigor Morris I. Beginning with credentials, This cat had more than you can shake a stick at: Eighteenth-generation pedigree, Champion bloodlines on both sides, and Best-in-Show Breeders who recognized in him the makings of THE WORLD’S NEXT MORRIS if not for his horrid underbite. I say it was horrid cause that’s what I was told by those in the know who lamented over- priced feline orthodontia as they handed him over to us for free. II. Our ritzy Himalayan lavished in our not-so-glitzy, unfinished basement, where sawdust and exoskeletons clung to his regal tail. III. It must have been the fleas that did him in. I heard them lighting on a nearby sheet of black plastic like scattered flecks of sand as I approached his motionless body. What happened when he died? How long before the parasites grew disenchanted with their ambient Champion blood? working memory lapse stems burn agate eyes. puddles of visions summon grey hair like her poodle’s. (she turned nine words to two.) a purist, she insisted on separating the breeds (of three, leave them be). “It’s Josie, like the flower,” she must have misspoken— I know no rose by that name. camper has been elevation: 400 feet of grab your shoulder strap & breathe out progress. waterproof blisters tackle the terrain like pack mules with woolen saddle bags of rationale. blaze on, furious spectator sportsmen whose canine sidekicks swelter for fountains of mascot lemonade. all tied down with taut- line hitches & traveling mercies. orchestral ambition conducts this train whose only life- line teeters on hare-brains and spotted fever. ticking meadows, suspense fields, and sewer rat shelters quench hyperextended gratitude on your knees. smoky springs soothe hot feet. hobo dinner. inside Jocasta, flashlight batteries and nakedness shudder for speedy recognition. insect check. pillow making. oneiric hellgrammites hook onto pant seams like ripping gut-level instincts through yards of a maze. alone in the shallows, seeds float, coagulating around rock moss sans-abri. |