Monday, January 16, 2006

FOUR POEMS by Amy King

The Playground Bandit Plays Back

JFK Atlanta International gives coffee
to tv on the radio's asylum studios
in conjunction with corporate
cooperation completely: comes
apart altogether while the rest remain
blessed buried in Christmas if
my fragmented existence coheres,
especially by the blanket
of soft forgotten
shaved sunsets on purr
makes me want
to see everything
fade: band-aid science.
Breathable ailments lie
beneath this soluble skin;
there's no way out unless
it's useless. An abuse began one way
as concerned instruction
until an end of brilliantly left out.
Bury the cat for future
bones of a spell to cast
by the beat that skipped a heart.


Always an Ant

Lilacs sang where nightingales
stood in tiny rows above the ground

The boy carried with him closely
a bearded toothless body

And claimed we are in a state of nature

He notes the heat of noon in afternoon
rising and puts away his dreaded blessing

His life thus far presents a series of tripping
over fences hardly in the way

Long now he’s had tiny phrases hemmed
into the seams of his undersleeves

Removing one he reads, I’ll be white all winter
and no one will bury my twin

Always an ant looks down from its crystal
chandelier to a world

Where time turns to perpetual relic

Even now we separately read the same book
together, the communion of one story’s person

Just when the boy looks up from the grass


How to Go About the Universe

He sent me a secret I can’t discuss,
so much so it does no good to touch
each other in this condition. The tummy
sags. A bathing suit bag bends with-
in his eyes. An invisible fence surrounds
the still in us. Or opens a door
to handshake gratuities—
like your forever trembling limbs
fall forever-after off. The wind-up
doll-head from moonshine submerges
with drink. Let the salutations begin.
Invite the key grips in. Say we passed all
tests in this next trans-Atlantic franchise.



Love’s Lost Dew


Like someone lost to mercy,
I fail inherited speech.

I am the exit in wound
you meant to execute.

I am the one you attend
in a blue orchid’s sleep.

I am the sepulcher closing,
burying your dreams.

A phoenix burns survival;
I waterfall to rise.

Jesus and the bumblebee,
a solid mass of seaweeds.

The dew extracts, competes
with your eternal outline.

My anemone settles
upon your clasping hand.

You remain incognito
without a friendly need.


Amy King is the author of the poetry collection, Antidotes for an Alibi (Blazevox Books), and the chapbook, The People Instruments (Pavement Saw Press Chapbook Award 2002). She currently teaches Creative Writing and English at Nassau Community College and is also an interview correspondent for miPOradio. Please visit www.amyking.org for more.