Three poems by Kristen Orser

1:
(a strange idea)

A light over this country and this age;
look at tomorrow and annotate the animal,

punch the clock and suggest sunchokes.

Our skin flakes off and we,
beasts, finish breakfast
while tidal currents take children.

In fiction, we all scatter, like live birds.

Truth is, there’s no sunrise
to lime this private feeling.

The occasion to bear our own weight:

Dearest Unutterable,
do you accept
a thousand kisses?

(Who sends missiles?)

2:
(the fire from inside)

The mosquito dies; blue baby
looks like the face in the moon—

like the summering
experiment, cupping
our national fantasy:

We shout toward the mirror in a wild
impulse. A peculiar in and out breathing—

The answer is, in a way, Yes! I swallowed the
explosives (and the child must be dug out)
:

Can we talk about this now
or shall we let shouting
turn to humming?

3:
(killed by stimulation)

Breathing is not difficult
and thoughts are fernlike.

We sleep in symmetry, and the world
refuses to make sense, but acts
as if there should still be gratitude.

Some grassy knoll

to hang and rehang bitter fruits; to take away
the very people we call father.

Loss is joined by a new desire:
to have a thoughtful moment,
a buzzy new discovery.

Blooming sound takes hold,
intuitive larynx curls up, starts to tin

and the world around booms.



Kristen Orser is the author of little books including Squint (Dancing Girl Press) and Folded Into Your Midwestern Thunderstorm (Greying Ghost Press). Her full length, With Lorraine All Day, was published by Artistically Declined Press. She currently lives and writes in Buffalo, NY.