March - Poem 31

IF WE KISSED, WE COULD TAKE OUT THE PAST FROM EACH OTHER’S TONGUES / A Cento composed by Susan Hankla

With lines from and by Kathleen Bednarek, Myoma Bibi, Susan Hankla, Amy Haworth, Christina McCleanhan, Elizabeth McGraw, and Alexis Wolfe.

The shades are drawn on the work,
after trying on the silver of a night.

I'm sat in my little kid closet;
the dog's barking begs a long story.

Poverty chickens squawk; by all accounts 
there were no worms anymore.

Awake at the spark, my friends always talk of tomorrow
What does yesterday melt into?

There's a line of ladies released from lies.
Was the sunset that spotless like really pure peach,

when the sea is filled with wrappers glinting in the light?
I miss keeping company with cleanliness, unbuttoned cuff

holding snot. I am all mouth stuffed with sky, and hardtack prayer.
There is rarely applause for the girl who colors her cat blue.

I'll make of you a sorryfish, a photo of a ripped photo;
grass painted in shades of prozak, I'll sing the scripture of my grief.

Think about something else: I'll put peas in the orzo.
I am from bridesmaids' dresses. Shalimar on pure cotton cloth.

I am a monkey near the out-of-tune piano.
Rewild your soul: there is a prayer between your thighs.

We are mountains, my lips in your hair: A taste of the feast that was promised.
It's not about what you wear, but how. Dandyism is a thing, Y'all.

I used to walk into a new city, feet clad in jelly shoes, but now I carry 
a wicker basket of hot pepper jellies, the only one to take the story with me.