Monday, February 1, 2010

Christopher Cheney

They Kissed Their Homes

They kissed their homes and they kissed people who
had been sleeping for hours and they kissed the lid of
a friend's coffin and they made their mothers cry of
happiness and they drank coffee in the early dark and
they heard hooting in the trees and they warmed their
hands inside their wadded shirts and they smelt beer
in the air and they motioned to the sky and they spilt
on their pants and they thought about sex and they
backed up their pickups and they heaved firewood over
the lip and it shook their flatbeds and jerked and they
were asleep and women kissed them and dead animals
kissed them and animals kicked them and they were asleep.

They Slapped Their Faces

They slapped their faces and sat on the edge of bathtubs
and ran a comb down their forearms and felt happiness
creep into their pockets and found their dogs wrapped up
in blankets and the clouds were big and yellow and firm
and in the road there is a man hitchhiking and there are
so many lovers in the supermarkets and there are those
who have bad sex and there is you who is probably getting
ready for brunch and there are those who don't know yet
of the dead and they yank their hands from scolding water
and wait.

-both poems previously published at DIAGRAM

They Tucked Their Heads

They tucked their heads in between the arms of another
life and they yawned into their sleeves and stacked boxes
of light bulbs to make room for their friends and salt trucks
cut them off and drifted from flowered medians and their
children clipped on earrings and preened their sideburns
and their odometers shit out and in winter they wore
skullcaps and denim and they wrestled electric blankets
from loved ones and there are big women that drink tea
and search the tablecloth for their glasses and a cloud flashes
on their strapless bodices and someone pulls their hair back.

They’re Flatten Their Heads

They’re flattening their hands on their inner thighs and
their condoms bare the tint of traffic lights and their
haunted faces and their crooked teeth and their friends
heave and there is no breath on their cheeks and their
dogs tunnel and sniff the night blankly aroused and there
is no breath like the breath of an animal feeding and their
clothes snag on chain link fences and they’ve pushed its
ribs in and they’ve kicked it over and it recoils like drying
pocket money and a heart beats in their lungs and they pull
out of their bodies and shake them which is their boredom.

-both poems previously published at NOO Journal

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