Autumn Guest

Crickets and Rain

In the file of house or somber whichever you don't remember, blame the bed the only shine in the room when it's made, for no trust in sex or God. The back against the wall curse is of pillows and train whistles that come back like rain. A woman washing lye through sweaty sexed, webbed hair weaving, now I come with fist and boot to stir the ashes, open the memory like he opened my body, stomping the bones. Closets are a funny thing. What I am able to say is where the farm was, how the river must have gotten into his dreams drowning the crickets, and sticks, reminding me of my grandmother's legs and what mother has not come.

The Exact Yes

The house I confined my virginity to was condemned by the city. Yesterday, it fell like the purple eye of dead, staring the daughter-hood right out of me. Today, I begin that house with my own curtain, sew it in to an eyelid black as a mask, black as the dark look of raccoon I do not wear well in public. I don't remember one dream I had in that house. There, I was the smallest rock, a dreamed pebble, heavy and dropped long from a distance. The exact yes is, I crashed. I was pressed out of style, an old suit beneath dirty thumbnails, the new creases I had... Pressed, hard enough to remember this, while the comets come and go outside my bedroom window. I tell you stones can be cruel and rigid things, that die in the air they were born in. Some things are thrown into their smoothness, sentences, made up from specific little maps, finding me, long after he was gone. I did not lose my virginity, question where it went, like a house key, a wallet, the baby I carried. I did not give it either. It slipped out of me like permission, and self praise being half scandal, there it was, a crimson heart, sewn into the green-leafed pattern of the nylon slipcover on that raggedy old couch. I am not inspired by this. I am singular in my returns.

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