Three Poems
Jill McDonough
You’re beating him, he needs to protect / the plate and his at-bat, throw something / outside the zone! something he can’t / possibly hit, think how afraid he must be / of you.
.I
Be a 22 year old American boy—get really drunk and embarrass yourself in front of the beautiful, freckled, 29 year old Italian Volcanologist that invited you to drinks with her 31 year
The boy has horrible teeth and a bicycle. They’re yellow, his teeth, and after school the children take a tree branch to his mouth.
–
His bicycle painted in bird shit: he rides for hours
you can call me the Boom Doctor
I have your emptied-out torso on the operating table
I’m wet and wearing white pants
I’m wet and wearing
White pants.
I’m wet and
Wearing white
Pants. I’m wet
Pants. I’m wet
I’m wet and wearing white pants.
Wearing white
I’m wet
I dreamt about walking around Ikea by myself and buying a lime green ice cube tray. I drive to the post office and pick out a large flat rate shipping box. I put the ice cube tray inside and I
After a couple of Martinis, // one may regard oneself pleasantly pixelated. / I cure nerves with a ten-hour Netflix binge, // then curve my vertebrae to you / while our phones update.
Washer and dryer as hapless duo, / each crashing and beating the other // to shit, idiot tandem: all this / while standing in place.
I consider the narrow chain of cars pulled through city parks like kite-string. In linguistics, mora is a single unit of syllabic weight. I consider yelling at the yellow cab to add more syllabic weight to my overall point.
The gouges / in the floor will become your scars, even as you erase / the life you had together. The floor is your map.
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
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