The Poetry Project

imogen xtian smith

the bloodmilk is life is poetry

(after Mei-Mei Bressenbrugge & Haley Heynderickx)

i want a garden. Something modest & need not feed the century. Tomatoes, cuc’s, snap peas
melonfruits. Squash, easily grown. Dip a finger for s e e d l i n g s in soil. Dip another
& surely as timepass spring rewraps the skeletal, flogs ass all summer ‘til its death red
death orange death yellow death crisp death—ice. Milksour mind ‘till light drips
thru, finds fleeting soft focus on the lotus of my skin x ear x nose x prick x cave x anus
perfect holes to hold my sprouting, my 10,000 pisswet wantings, sapphic mutant cliffcrash
—wise & potent (Sylvia Townsend Warner), the rue rooting inside, playing shame as
shame’ll do. i cry so hard the salt tastes ocean, rolls rolls rolls as tides & i turn
flipfish, beach whipped at SUNset. Nefarious? Infectious! Gutted dolls sub
-tweet n’ scatter—hot nudes, seven wonders, gay scheming, sowing seed.

If we’re reflections of god & we’re lonely, WTF is truth & universe? Pilate asks a quest
-ion & the oracle says hello (John). Mx. Pilate turns a sort-of-saint, poltergeisted by gnosis.
i want a garden in which everything living twists beyond me—nouns & pronouns, articles
indefinites, the soil a richly satanic. BELIEF / AMBIVALENCE skeletal wrap! Life’s
a wheel & wood goes soft, wormrot, cast mycelial (Amanda Monti), only not before—
My dreams eavesdrop on poems recited, recited, games of telephone generationally renewed.
Askers of yore, taste my flora—sassy bitch of fullthroat tease, unseen flowers tongueing toes (John Keats).
The morning of the poem finds me girldick in hand, ready to piss, ready to cum, ready to hang there
lambsoft in warmwant. How easily i can love (James Schulyer) everyone but— xx Some days
forsaken of grace & healing, depression being the absence of all desire. Learn to be

different every damn time. Coffee up, i come to poem like air surrounds a bleating.
i am afraid—what if nothing grounds me (Choi Seungja)? So i worldbuild conjunctions
speak motion & scurry to keep up. IT’s only movement (Inger Christensen). Only politics.
Only fucks. A bookhouse of factfeels, leapfrog. Matters begin & end at the table (Joy
Harjo) thus write me here, sex me here, set bones or dress body here, carve harvest or lay bulb
—foundate for fragments, enjambements, bluesoak dahlias w their lips together
n’ blow (Bacall Darling Lake etc.), guys giving eyes all tough & shit but in a dreamdyke Leslie
Feinberg-stopping-their-motorbike-to-fix-yr-flat kinda way. Transsexual sentences flipflop
like fish who came before. Bevys of risk. i used to think of gardens as drop root voilá, am more
& less foolish now. Love spilt, the bloodmilk is life is poetry. You must stay open & railable—
don’t rain forty days like a sullen god but do it some.

Issue 20