Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Heidi Lynn Staples

The Village

I feels sad tonight. That's lonely human, right?
I feels like I wishes I'd had the children
I had on the night I wasn't sad.
A night I can no wrongly remember,
but a beautiful night with a fool's
moon and dancing. The men
cut sugar-cane and the children.
See how they touch my need.
How they raid my hair.
One has a special name for me,
He calls me Moma,
You pronouce it like in the Spanking.
How they want me there.

The Lush of Sulk

Bower is my shaper; flight shell knot
And. Green wake of me true flight sounds in
Limb puzzlers: green read of me
Dei sighed the shed pollen. Green
Conifer of my shoal: green read of
Yes in the pines gulf writes a nest
Pollination's ache.
Ray, how flight flocks grew the
Ebbing and the shed oh! and web, seed peal bear
Strew conical, sperm now art gifting; high
Sod grand high soft dei calm fir green.

-Previously published in Gut Cult

Heresey Rhyme

Bitter brother husband in other room
Wishes she's off,
What she'll she shove him?
Groan grit teeth and mutter.
How she'll she criticize.
Whips out a wife.
How she'll she married him
Wits pout of life.

Aching Common Sense
for Farah Marklevits

s a whole in one a golf marriage?
Going the distance. A gopher marriage?

I don't know. An agnostic marriage?
No. An antagonistic marriage?

I wonder, what makes a good marriage?
A not no such thing goose egg marriage?

Stick out your neck. A giraffe marriage?
Pouring out your heart. A carafe marriage?

My mother wed. A he's gone marriage.
Made of me maid of agon marriage.

Can't believe my eyes. Agog marriage?
Here's looking at you! A grog marriage?

I've hinged May's aim to Staples. Who's that?
Playing with heart. A gambol marriage?

Reddening Devout of the House

o let's go for our sun say drive,
land wet a honking foil'll gleamingly geese.
you'll thrive on the thrive
wilding an ode. i'll sway to your pleased,
roil down the window to let din the air hive,
the wind singing kin the sheaves.

o hours unsay we're alive;
yet, flare now we're trill flung, full of be leaves –
you sway thru me, derive
mulch perfect there hums. yes, let's conceive
a bay of be. o throes mortis and heat,
true lush here and roaring, we'll cleave

sun to beech copper, arrive
as dei parts, swilling wills of weave.

-all three poems previously published at Slope

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