The Poetry Project

Two poems

Gabrielle Octavia Rucker


We seal the promise that will not keep
blighted kiss shielded behind red rusted Porsche
two childhood wits reunited
xxxxxx two feral spies undercover in topaz
huddled together by the backdoor caught conjuring an eternal Autumn xxx ripped apart
spat back into the clover grass all alone smoking dope with a blue tailed skink
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx the Moon of Eris glaring
Out beyond the static long memory holds
face framed in emerald wisdom observed through
obsidian glass xxxxxx memory deluge over dual voice
the footsteps
the teardrops
the dancefloor
xxxxxx a shared thing
the rambling still & always rambling
xxxxxx Over each city a microwave cooking the flesh
green and gold licked radiation raining down
another false aurora of an industrial God
he who sees ghosts in the street
xxxxxxxxxxxxx bright light before bed
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx big hands spinning baoding
Even if the phones are listening in we must remain incoherent
xxxxxx big bodied peeling through the dictionary
eyes trained on a swampland millenium
gutter water raising plastic bead floating in the doorframe
tantalum obsolete

ULULATE (alarm 1

Io points to a bat trapped in the chimney. We sing up the red brick until it clears,
sweep out the dust in special shoes to break the curse—black hole hidden beneath
black car, blue flame lit on every burner, a jealous hand fingering the smoked salt.

Under the streetlamp, I watch the cat pulling in her rabbit, find its bones the next
day floating in the sink. Again, dreams of peeling pink shallot skin, of eyes wedged
in the house or worse—a myopic kind of doldrum, 4 dozen toothed globe snails nesting
in the pulp fruit.

Below, another life simmers: sunflower flag still spinning, silver flash of talon belonging
to some pet the child invented just yesterday (n. Lolo) leading me, in our honest play
towards the edge of the yard where the tamarack hovers in her sentience.

What it comes down to is a hand in a head—the puppetry of whim unstoppable.
Unprecedented, the bodies floating. Flood of the past is the flood of the future.
Those who snatch away will snatch away, off into the cool lemon tile of the kitchen.

#261 — Summer 2020