Poetry

April 15, 2012      

How Bout Them Apples by Nikki Wallschlaeger

I’m going to faint by madness intercepted
pump my neuroses full of unabridged diction.
Rush goes the weasel wearing a tinfoil tri-corner hat
where the Woolworth’s in Greensboro used to be
my full mimosa tea is a pitcher of bargained hurt.

If a Friday brings a sprig of Whitman lilac to you,
keep it. But remembering his political about-face song
of myself tickles bellies in a David Duke flash-mob

as you wait on the would-be rocker exchanging what’s
left of you with tin Christmas trees on the boulevard.
Puddles of tangerines, of nervous sleep, of 12 finches
the amnesiac & the bear. Each the chase, miscalculated
wooden nickels, the worldly, porcupine quills of the century

Shuttering, fluttering guides of unwashed glowing skin
my one spare hair leaving via breath. I wanted you
to reclaim leaves, earwigs, truffles, winged mary janes,

to admit you own at least one toddler tiara of impatience
to really sundry our clichés in the rows of flowers built for war
in order to snatch the streetcar blowing along on a cable.
This is a laughing stick of dynamite again. A candycane

putting the moves on for every red tugboat in the harbor
not skipping over the freshwater seals. Oh yes.
This is meat without a killing. A city built for silverfish
The woman sailor going in and out of her mouth.

About the author:

Nikki Wallschlaeger lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is the author of one chapbook, Head Theatre (2007) which etched itself out of her palms unexpectedly. Her hands continue to talk, which is why she writes. Publications include Nervehouse, Esque, The Smoking Poet, and Pirene’s Poetry Fountain. (forthcoming). When she’s not writing, she plays the djembe drum in a radical community marching band, The Milwaukee Molotov Marchers, with her partner and son as a form of symbiotic exercise.

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