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En Vogue: A Relief


Endless chiseled experiments in cookery

ask of the omelet made with human hair

to dye tapioca the same shade as caviar.

Wilding women in Mexico pass mirrors unnoticed.

“You shouldn’t need to fake it,” erases in paint

the woman with horse hair hovering

within the hem of her invisible cloak.  She is framed

amid the puns, the names and vases of tequila

by children frequenting a house

with animals playing about on the carpet.

God my guts keep bellowing, she seizes.

Yes, let’s, said the sound of creation’s

birds taking place in the fleshly room found

in the same home of the hem on the skirt

of a female figure painted by birds on the wall

that beheld her fresco.  They came to life on paper

and flew through the window and out.

Their images still go there to express

a woman’s indiscretion.  Shadows

of a lonely woman

of a lovely woman

trap passersby in the Geranium Estate’s highest tower

left to care alone for cageling moons, each to each.

Maternity therein blossoms a landscape

mummified before them.  As a debutante she stood

lounging up at the light that falls behind the lines

soldiering men who shoot pellets into abdomens.

She fashions fallout long before it’s fashionable

to defend.  With photographs of dolls, the Leonardos pose

in their grins.  Their architecture rises, closes in the story

of humans called legendmythahistory.   The cuts crawl

deep with their oldest friends, inebriated

by the flailing ages of death gases.

The grass lies down, quietly feral.

With faces cracked in the fractured pavement,

the future’s flower towered beneath the glass of their feet,

appearing only in reflection’s post-mortem concrete.

Which is to say, the cracks made way for the moon’s silhouette,

her skirts to rustle seed bearers out, the nether regions

of those with no whistle, no war, no house but a home

where they buried it.  The women would look up

from the rapes to cull the pennies called sparrows.

The beasts of midnight held party to the pieces of blasts

apart and sunk them to fallow ground, the small deaths

to wallow in.   The country of birth befriended her face

to say adios as always.  Life, the fear of living, begins in the soil

of a deaf public protracted from tomorrow.

Thus the Madonna’s Bedtime Story

remotely soups with buttery sky pulled in by her shades

from the world’s largest orb in progress.

In the paint off canvas, they stood apart from

les femmes enfants and muses who stir with ladles.  Fin.




Amy King