Four Poems

Cow Lonely Are You?

On the internet of wildflowers
a white flower
is not what I see
blue furling dress petal
a flower is part dress part animal
part vegetable part face
an internet a lighted
shape of light on screen


In the floral city at the flower’s center
lily or amaranth a furry civic center
halated pistils
furry filament
when you, a flower, are asked for poppies’
whereabouts by vegan panthers
don’t anther


pick the flowers
take their part
they are part part part petal
scintillant on hilltops
hosting an air
a fertile bee-provoking glitch
part dream, part snack, a culture



the mayor is a secret king
egg shines upon his pan
ever the good answer
in his hands he sweats it


pats it        loose fruit husk
my idiot’s       my sex
my deity’s      in touch with it
the area outside my box
is public information
because famous


root for the conductor
with his grin
fruit softens at the pit
the mayor unravels
himself      dimpling
yes his jacket’s cusp


but no one else is fancy
no one knows      the mayor
is handsomest     unjacketed
and shirtless     undershirtless
jeweled crowned



why is it too obvious to slouch into the soft furniture
couch and sigh for power&fame! even my hands soften thinking
ah to be named even in my wig and shades
when small I thought the key might be to try
each thing then I thought no only one thing soon enough
I’ll be “she who does thing” then
I sat on this couch.


oh it is gentle it is so gentle it
abrades me with its petting where I jut
gathers my gaze to this wall and the dry ice pouring
out the mantle (imagine if I had to housesit a house
the week before Halloween, imagine the cackling
doorway, cottony stair rail, vegetal exoskeletons


and the verdant witchy wagging her dick,
broom, her broomsdick, I want to watch out the window
daring the neighboring kids to name me “which”
I am the one “which one” this one “the window which”
this window and cast my shadow on the lawn)


now I have never had a lawn to spread out in but
have sat on couches, mine, and sofas of others, my
name means sofa in three languages and I am yours (which)
I wait for you, stuffed into posture


Chosen Family

“but I want more than an extended family of ex lovers” –Allison Bechdel, self-portrait, speech bubble

but I do not want much more than an extended family of ex lovers
but I do want a love or more to share with me my mattress
but want a new person to start in my body and to extend
but I do want to extend my family out of my body and alive
but I want ex lovers to come back as lovers sometimes
but I want love to loop


but do I want much more than an extended family of ex lovers
I want more than an extended family of ex lovers wants
I want more than the families extending from the families of my ex lovers and their ex lovers and
the families of their ex lovers and all the desire it takes to create families of ex lovers or new
persons extending
more than all their wants I want
just one extensive love


but I do want more than a distended farm hilly of maneuvers
I do want more than a suspended flan milling in my oeuvre
I’d like to extend to you my familiarity with others
what I want butts heads with my wants knees under the covers
mothers druthers hovers butters
I want nothing more than an intended lamb filly pho eggs lœufs roofs
I want to learn French, I hear it is the language of love



Sophia Dahlin

Sophia Dahlin is a poet in Oakland, California. She teaches generative poetry workshops, and edits, with Jacob Kahn, the chapbook press Eyelet. Her first book, Natch, is out now from City Lights.