Poetry / Deirdre Kovac

Stop. Give it back. Yes, that.
Great bathing pleasure. With you.
Pose me like a rich girl, which girl
you watch fall in the basement,
all blood and teeth and stitches
coming loose. Bury it
in the front yard, the
dead rabbit. Dead
hamster. Dead
other hamster. Trinkets
galore like Tet. Tut.
Like the library yard. Green
and gushing with lemonade.
Made special but spills.
For the occasion. Stolen.
Like a toy. In trees.

Upturn

Intended indentured juncture
squirms until we come back
on and talk a little bit
to bother to dither to turn
the light on rise the up up
finger the forward facing
mast—broken from its
bottom to our tops most
and mostly nothing new
that we haven’t broken all—
ready, ready or not. Not.
But nice for other voices.
Same vices.
Versus verses.
A ceiling of shadows.
Shadow of the sound
of washing dishes.
Curses. Worsened by
worthier persons whose
purses empty
with ease. Please.