Ann M. Fine
I have recorded hundreds of supplications;
instead of prayer; confessed I was born
and wept like an open infection. Everything before
you; (I) crept by, defrocked of my mild
malformities and de-selved my delivery until
carnations peeled to the bone; I have gone out alone
with neck of hair in clear view
of the cameraman’s public eye taking of my
rude white-neck (slim and open) never the less
exposed, in the ozoneless low noon of the most
ordinary finial exam (historic). One damned.
Flute of teeth tucked in pit of anger. Mine.
Song of technique, tattooed in immediate
ink, on the pandemic skin of fainting wrists
sung hard and solo to soft soles tip-towering over
tripping whole cold burr ridges of rule
and order (out) all the words
plucked by accident, often
so falsely acting like lyre strings were (just there)
near, they over tried, and sounded off
in an ionic temple of some sudden memory–
sterile memory, someone’s, not mine.
Mud of motherdom, I have declined, but kindly
when asked why, and most lady-likely
expression: have raised
the slightest (ever so) blind
and bent as quietly as deeply troubled
to light a fire behind it.
Author Discusses Poems