(image jumping)

when the baby latches on to the young
mother’s nipple, she pockets air
in her cheeks, feels the tiny
teeth like bee stings.

in grasslands, ants harvest stalks of grass,
drag them into tunnel cities to rot.
the rotting feeds the fungus that feeds the ants.
people, too, can live like this.

he wakes up because she is choking, but not so
much that she cannot say she is choking.
stomach to back, he forces his hands up into her
diaphragm. the culprit: a halls lozenge.
she jokes that next time she’s looking for a rush,
she’ll catch the bathtub spider, or let him
tie her to the kitchen table.

the flea-burdened girl on the sidewalk shakes
her soup can full of marbles in the face
of the man walking by. when he dumps the change
from his ethically sourced latte into her can,
she pulls up her shirt – she is trying to make a fair trade.
later, the man fucks his wife for the first time in months,
closes his eyes to see the homeless girl’s tits.

termites build their mounds always
on a north-south axis. thumbnail shaped
heaps like rows of red-dirt gravestones.


Renamed “Through and Through”

This is a poem that I wrote a while ago, but am revisiting now as my final poetry portfolio is due soon. I’ve done some editing, and received some help along the way as well.

Through and Through

A boy in cotton socks stands in the creek bed
throwing round rocks upstream.
Later he tells his friends his father taught him
to skip stones.

A married woman keeps a brita filter
in her sock drawer, but fills her husband’s glass
from the leak beneath the kitchen sink.

Contact between windshield and bald-capped bird
sends fissures spiderwebbing through glass,
feathers streaming in rear windows.

Pigtailed little girl dunks her sour gummy worm head
first into the pond, sugar dissolving amidst duck fluff.
Nothing bites.

Kudzu swallows an acre of land in six months
rain-hungry in shadow.
The jacketed trees die standing up, still green.

I have been told that drowning only hurts
until you are water through and through.