Christopher Davis


 


A Face on a Milk Carton Filled with Ants

 

In this vacant lot, a hot spot near a gay beach, 
ice plant appears to be dying, its green spears

withered, tipped in brown.  Sniff, with me,
piss, stagnant tide, trampled, rotting reeds. 

Papyrus?
Foreskin,

once, felt thin and soft against my tongue, not unlike webbing
between toe bones of that duck’s foot cooked in peanut sauce.

I live, alone, in loving memory, a remnant, a neglected residence,
adobe eroded by rain, and by my own fingers picking off friable

bits, dividing dust, making two piles, light, dark, flinging
both into a hearth, a dent in the floor, a muddy pit.  May

one, one bright night, far from fleshy ruins, in a meadow, pose
without moving, a white mule tethered to an evergreen, dawn

around us reddening, demolition workers, younger, arriving
early, hand not near zipper, pointer, taken from mouth, wet,

reborn,
testing,

wind kissing invisible lips, whispering, in English, begin,
begin: bring distant points of interest within close range

with the use of
this machine

Dangling between my knees,
an unopened selected poems.

Alexander Pope, a hunchback in a dungeon sculpting couplets?
Nope: Richard Hugo, hindbrain vomiting five fifths, tuna salad.

Reader, please, it’s safe, laugh, life
itself is pounding in our pants yet.

Let’s pour fresh, stinking snapper out,
baby, all over our auction house floor.

Add cilantro, earthy
perfume, salty sun,

uplifting,
echoing.




© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review