three poems
Yvonne Amey
The Years Dad Blamed the Breeze
Some nights I imagine Dad as the lift in a shoe or wing of a plane—
his wisdom packed with imaginary insight:
all shadows have eyes,he'd say, stoking the embers
The Years Dad Blamed the Breeze
Some nights I imagine Dad as the lift in a shoe or wing of a plane—
his wisdom packed with imaginary insight:
all shadows have eyes,he'd say, stoking the embers
“and where’s the melody
to remedy the melody, the remedy to remedy the remedy”
-Diane Seuss
Last ever moments of falling
asleep with you, last
ballooning mood & heartbeat
so I
Macy’s Closeout Sale
I am curious what newcomers think of my city,
but it is not really
seeds
when nothing smells like you
i let dawn-colored fruit rot in the blue bowl
spray perfume thru the air and try to touch
myself the way you touched me
too bad we met/never met
I leave behind a lot of empty wine bottles.
You said eat anything in the fridge and I did
right down to the last gherkin.
Unrelated: your turtle is dead.
You failed to mention it and I failed
to
July yawns. Flashes its grills...
When your father and I found out you were a boy I remembered the time in my early twenties a co-worker at my first restaurant job invited me out for a drink with the crew after our shift. He drove me
I kept my thoughts about Bitchface Becky to myself
but then Beyoncé did something magical
Bible | Vers
Top to Bottom | scan my profile | For Christ’s Sake | Sing Jesus’ Name | I gospel & apostle | Book of Vers | My rural bottom’s up | My crop /top | down along the road | a hym(n) in
There’s a song in my figurative head
that I can’t shake loose.
When I was a body,
I did so many things with my hands,
I can’t count.
Around here it smells like lightning,
like plasma.
All that whimpers isn’t want.
One spring, I pulled
a reed from an oboe.
I planted it by a pond.
Instantly, it grew
dense at the water’s edge.
The wind told lie after lie—
black
Morning gets angry and destroys a city
not New York, too obvious, but suppose
it’s on the coast. Suppose we’re the first to go
I picture Goya’s Colossus and my empathy
runs threadbare. Suppose
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Not be be missed!