Marooned Between Port & Starboard
As I wrecked your car today, I thought of
the way pennies over the eyes soothe a headache
and aspirin keeps the aster alive.
I heard you call me latticed, call me cicadas caving in,
and snow functioned as debris – crashing –
something like dancing to every song we ever fucked to.
I hummed across lucidity,
memories ribboning volcanic, splaying upon skin,
sticking like errant feathers and keratin kisses,
Causing me to wonder if you are anchor or island,
if the asymmetry of your hands, like the face of an owl,
is rooted in strategy,
And if you do anything but swim to drown,
guiding me with whistles across vacant seas
as you push me from port to starboard and return.
The walls became womblike, and I pictured
the hard edges of pretty colors glimmering
just below the precipice of your tongue,
The universe pushing iliac venom through thrusting veins
as I saw you filling teacups with electricity
and halfheartedly praying for my salvation.
Cymbal Crash Bruises
if you hold me hard enough
to leave fingerprints
the color of your eyes
on my arms,
i’ll forgive you
with a kiss
that reels in the sky
and uses it to
emboss
our bed
with four-letter clouds.
but sunrise hovers
as
my half-sleep song
hums a note
that eases my lips
into your hair
with a breathless grace
that expands us
like cymbal crash,
and
each time i start to say
i love you,
you stop me
with a poem
and
i call your words
axe
as they whittle away the wild,
call you sculptor
as you soften my edges
to complement yours
and whisper
go back to sleep.
About the author:
Karissa Morton lives in Des Moines, Iowa, where she is simultaneously working as a writing tutor, nannying two lovely children, finishing her BA in English, and encountering the daunting task of applying to MFA programs. Some of her recent poetry appears in nearly two dozen journals, including PANK, Up the Staircase, Writers’ Bloc, and Fogged Clarity.
