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She is the lead in a high school play about her mother. She is an acrobat. She is learning to understand balance. She is rolling on top of him and he is trying simultaneously to unhinge her bra and not swallow. She is crawling into his mouth with her tongue.

Her breasts look like small cakes. She is moving her hips faster. From deflating the tires. From melting every crayon in the house. He imagines sad poems, hundreds of gray hats turning black in the rain,. He opens his eyes and it is over. They try again. This time, he moves quicker. He is inside her before she is half-undressed. The rocking begins, the quick knocking of a stranger to be let in. It is over soon and it does not remind.

Menu Skip to content. One night, he will dream his daughter grown up, emptying bottles of anger in the kitchen sink. She is rolling on top of him and he is trying simultaneously to unhinge her bra and not swallow her too soon.

Her breasts look like small cakes and he is cupping them, groping a dark room for sharp edges. She is moving her hips faster and he needs to close his eyes to stop himself from collapsing the house of cards. He imagines sad poems, hundreds of gray hats turning black in the rain, but she drags her hands down his chest as if motioning the beginning of a race.

The Glass Essay

It is over soon and it does not remind either of them of dreaming, of opening your eyes to find it is all still real, still breathing heavy beside you. Her second book, New Shoes on a Dead Horse, is forthcoming in When not performing poetry, she enjoys making and imbibing coffee, making full use of public transportation, and waxing on and on about feminism. Mi Madre. Blue August.

bizarre sex #7 by kitchen sink

The Golden Deer. Two Poems. The Rematch. In Fairytales. Four Poems. Drug Facts. Interior Spaces. Then Come Home to Settle.

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A Small War Has Ended. Dream Without Hands. Four Pieces from Wake. Those women! Why should women be responsible for male desire? My voice is high. One of Whom? My voice is very high. Mother vaults it. And whatever did you do with that little tank suit you had last year the green. The frail fact drops on me from a great height. Her tiny sharp shoulders hunched in the blue bathrobe. She eyes the kitchen clock with hostility. Leave at eleven, home again by four?

I continue. She is buttering her toast with jagged strokes. Silence is assent in our code. I go into the next room to phone the taxi. My father lives in a hospital for patients who need chronic care. Marriage is for better or for worse, she says,. As we pass them it gives a sudden sense of every object. I wish I had been nicer to him before he got crazy. It is hard to find the beginning of dementia. I heard his sentences filling up with fear. He would start a sentence—about weather, lose his way, start another.

It made me furious to hear him floundering—. There was a long pause while snow covered us both. At the hospital we pass down long pink halls. Father sits strapped in a chair which is tied to the wall. His face cracks open it could be a grin or rage. Hello love, she says. He jerks his hand away. We sit. Mother begins to unpack from her handbag the things she has brought for him,. He is addressing strenuous remarks to someone in the air between us. Once in a while some old formula floats up through the wash—. I notice his front teeth are getting black.

I wonder how you clean the teeth of mad people. He always took good care of his teeth. My mother looks up. She and I often think two halves of one thought. They keep rolling out of his huge stiff fingers. He used to be a big man, over six feet tall and strong,. But now he turns to me with a rush of urgent syllables.

I have a photograph taped to my fridge at home. It shows his World War II air crew posing in front of the plane. Hands firmly behind backs, legs wide apart,. They squint into the brilliant winter sun of My father on the far left is the tallest airman,. The shadowless light makes him look immortal,. His black grin flares once and goes out like a match. I wake too fast from a cellar of hanged puppies. It is generally anger dreams that occupy my nights now. My dream was of an old woman lying awake in bed. She controls the house by a system of light bulbs strung above her on wires.

One by one the switches refuse to turn the bulbs on.

Searching for the Opposite

Then she creeps out of bed to peer through lattices. Anger travels through me, pushes aside everything else in my heart,. I want to curse the false friend who said I love you forever. I reach up and switch on the bedside lamp. Night springs. I lie listening to the light vibrate in my ears. Falsity and bad love and the deadly pain of alteration are constant topics in. Well, thou halt paid me back my love! But if there be a God above. Whose arm is strong, whose word is true,.

This hell shall wring thy spirit too! There go, Deceiver, go! My hand is streaming wet;. Oh could that lost heart give back, back again to thine,. One tenth part of the pain that clouds my dark decline! Vain words, vain frenzied thoughts! No ear can hear me call—. Lost in the vacant air my frantic curses fall. Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me still—. Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill! How did Emily come to lose faith in humans?

She admired their dialects, studied their genealogies,. Her introvert nature shrank from shaking hands with someone she met on the moor. But the poetry shows traces of a deeper explanation. As if anger could be a kind of vocation for some women. The heart is dead since infancy. Unwept for let the body go. Suddenly cold I reach down and pull the blanket back up to my chin. It is stunning, it is a moment like no other,. I could say, Yes I know that I have two hands. Then one day I awakened on a planet of people whose hands occasionally.

From the next room I hear my mother shift and sigh and settle.


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Out the window the moon is just a cold bit of silver gristle low on fading banks. Our guests are darkly lodged, I whispered, gazing through. The question I am left with is the question of her loneliness. Astonished light is washing over the moor from north to east. One way to put off loneliness is to interpose God. Emily had a relationship on this level with someone she calls Thou.

She describes Thou as awake like herself all night. Thou woos Emily with a voice that comes out of the night wind. Thou and Emily influence one another in the darkness,. I am uneasy with the compensatory model of female religious experience and yet,. My education, I have to admit, has been gappy. I remember one Sunday I was sitting in the backseat of the car. We were waiting in the driveway for mother,. Showing a good bit of leg today Mother, he said. I stared at the back of her head waiting for what she would say. But she just laughed a strange laugh with ropes all over it. Later that summer I put this laugh together with another laugh.

She was talking on the telephone in the kitchen. Well a woman would be just as happy with a kiss on the cheek. Laid alone in the darkened room;. And the smile of joy is banished,. Has entire, unbiased sway,. Grief deepening, joy congealing,.


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  • Sex in the kitchen sink: Poems and art..
  • Shall bear thy soul away. The awful time for thee:. Dost thou not feel upon thy soul. A flood of strange sensations roll,. Forerunners of a sterner power,. It is chilling to watch Thou move upon thou,. It is a shock to realize that this low, slow collusion. She has reversed the roles of thou and Thou. Why be unstrung and pounded flat and pine away. I say more than they that watch for the morning. I like to believe that for her the act of watching provided a shelter,.

    Kitchen Sink Archives | For people who think too much

    But for myself I do not believe this, I am not quenched—. I have watched this destiny disclose itself. That is too simple. I see a great silver needle go flashing right through the deck once from end to. And around the walls of the room a voice goes whispering,. Nude 8. Black disc on which the fires of all the winds. Under the loam a woman has dug a long deep trench. Nude Green thorn of the world poking up. Everything it is it has , the voice says.

    Space is bluish black and glossy as solid water. She peers and glances for some way to go, trying to lift her hand but cannot. All of a sudden the wind changes. I had become entirely fascinated with my spiritual melodrama. Days passed, months passed and I saw nothing. I continued to peer and glance, sitting on the rug in front of my sofa.

    Outside the window spring storms came and went. April snow folded its huge white paws over doors and porches. I watched a chunk of it lean over the roof and break off. A great icicle formed on the railing of my balcony. Something had gone through me and out and I could not own it. Whether it goes to join Thou and sit on the porch for all eternity.

    But I can tell you what I saw.