KNIT
I ripped the
feather
duster apart
to
make a bird
hat to warm
my head under
the moon. You
lined tiny
bottles
of black
currant vodka
on the dash
where
a little gold
tray held
the gold ring
your
finger was too
swollen to
spear &
the
cigarette
holder
I took once
into
the
shadows
to kiss.
*
My eye painted
church tops
where
the day before
was sky I
pushed
my body
against &
the red wall
slid gripping
air
around
the
stop-sign
shaped
room.
I fell onto
a carpet of
dying plants
&
terra cotta,
drank a vial
of
poppy juice
&
felt 100
hands land
on my chest.
*
There was a
knock on
but no foot
under
the door.
*
The sunset
matched
my dress &
you
passed right
through
me like I’d
only
ever seen you
in
a shard of
mirror so
I stripped
nude &
knit a new
dress
from strings I
pulled
from the
couch.
*
Your camp
filled
with
basketballs &
mine with cat
fur &
shirts sewn
from
leftover rags
we
cleaned the
house
for five days
straight
with. I
remember the
particular
smudge
one song left
on my eye
&
the flashbulb
it left
in my mouth so
now
when I open it
it
blinds.
*
You took the
plant
leaf in your
hand &
stems
heaved 100
hands up to
the ceiling
&
I never told
you
but here I
tell you
I planted our
dust
bunnies in the
dirt.
*
It was your
booted
lower leg I
saw
reflected, cut
off
at the
foot. I found
your tattoos
in a cup
liquefied, my
face
oval,
blued. I spilled
them on my
arms
& they
bloomed
dark morning
glories.
Julie Doxsee is the Canadian-American author of three books of poetry: The Next Monsters (Black Ocean, 2013), Objects for a Fog Death (Black Ocean, 2010), and Undersleep (Octopus Books, 2008). She holds a PhD in English and Creative Writing from the University of Denver (2007) and an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (2002). After several visits to Turkey over the years, in 2007 she moved to Istanbul, where she teaches academic writing, creative writing, and literature courses at Koç University. An excerpt from this poem originally appeared in CutBank.
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