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
chrysanthemum
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

 

Dumbshow

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
undoes

 

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

 

Switch

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

 

 

Related Posts

Four Poems from Conditions The Idyllic Childhood I grew up in this vulgar & expensive hotel. Rooms that look like wedding cakes. Each interior themed around a different history. This is the third reich room--a wallpapered legion of totenkopf's. This is the English bourgeois room--my father's side hunted foxes in here. Th...
Three Poems from “Horrible Places” Baltimore-Washington International Airport, Baltimore, Maryland 21240 Shoes! Computers! Remove them! Shoes! Computers! Remove them! Shoes! Computers! Remove them! Shoes! Computers! Remove them! Security chants over and over. Feeling pressured to move forward in the line even tho there’s little spac...
Three Poems Follow Me trauma’d palm trees listening with the crawl space rat’s path toward ashes sniffing the home depot stones & methane drains to contain our watery sex & shit from flooding vice against the vined wire bordering where our pending strike yearns loudly secreting togethering beyond...
Nemean 1 the Starrrrrrs are out Pindar carving horses out of instituted soap   “Storm-swift” horses clocking rhomboid contour   into the afterworld— song’s demi-glaze encasing   moneyed sky, custard blush. Heracles made pillars   being tubes that siphoned cash all the way   into th...

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.