I am blot on
mole on Common
Man’s beak. I play
maid in mail slot,
veiled sailor, water-
I trace ancestral
frowns, every trawling
net, and try to pin-split
the moment our music
birthed, when a blood-
tied woman pulled
accordions out of her
and gifted me these
of break and
AS I SIT HERE MISREADING EVERYTHING I WROTE FOR THE PAST TWO YEARS.
In my notes the word “seven” looks like “semen,” so the phrase I jotted reads, “Ink dries in six hours or semen, maybe less?” If that’s one offer, that’s the relief. I’m so sloped. I don’t retain rules for socializing. I have the strength of a diffuse root. Such character in this phallic marble statue. Semen minutes until the bed sheets dry. The cadence sharpens the breath, not the penis. We could only get to evensong, anyway— ease was wishful. Hardy’s thrush, not Keats’ Nightingale. We need heated jasmine, and a cradle lake to ferry across on the second full moon this month. What to fiddle in. Symphonies composed by Germans conducted by Jews. I’m looking for a country I have no ties to. Nice dream adjustment. A pool moving away, clean line. Your comma really kills it, and I can’t get closer to you than that.
HACK WOULD BE 100 THIS YEAR
Polite-lipped leaving. Distance sees its own
scrapes of terror narrowing on the runway,
blossoms light on cinched fields
growling with sad snow, what makes it
sad is its particle hardness at
root, at nucleus, we are asked to
not take flakes down to their essential
areas, and not to look at man with baggage
this way—depressive bouts, recent split
from wife and creed, look he wants
my body for a little, but I’m in the air
already in head winds at 10,000 feet,
slurped the essential window to prepare
for the centennial anniversary of Hack’s
birth and the first Armory Show,
birth of the term Avant-Garde
in America— It’s 1913,
I search for Hack on East 14th street,
I think I am wearing similar
slacks similar bowling-hat-
baldness and have similar
loneliness, though I don’t deserve
any accomplishment of memory
in the Gashouse District.
Demolition of, demolition of, of.
But I can’t act as wine-stale
for much longer.
Limp, I’m finished with you,
before you, tall sir—you are sweet
to let me scale these baseboards
with raw tongue.
I don’t fit, but I’m
bashed by how
quick you dredge
Says my father,
we are not cutthroat enough
to be CEO’s-
My vacancy is honest, at least;
flat hotel eyes.
I need a new ledger, gauze. To stop
missing how medicinal the ocean
smells to the ill
gulls me, unwary, well-
bloodied eyebrows cut
speech through matchsmoke
City meadow drips,
I’m ethnically ambiguous here
I don’t know where to fit.
Mechanized mantras spurt
A prison knife accents your
Caroline Davidson received an MFA from the University of Colorado. Her poems have appeared in RealPoetik, Coconut, Tinge, Sixth Finch, Gulf Stream, Robot Melon, and elsewhere.