8.10 / October 2013 :: Queer 4

Excerpts from Ricochet

Preface.

listen to this poem

In the beginning the past was notwithstanding. There was a thicket and I stood inside of it,
piercing a thimble.

          you knew she was
                     down there, didn’t you

I stayed my hide.

My voice through the stacks was a great danger; a far pilgrim so far
     from here. A beam repeating, I bore down and twisted

My beloved, the aerialist scanned with her needling
found her– with teeth   like~ and she was / and she was and will be him, breathless.

I wanted to grasp, but I’d blighted the corn on my way to gather what I needed: evidence to
suggest me: tooth-embossed belt, plastic chalice, bouquet minus baby’s breath, headache.

Mother disarmed my shawl through her wedding ring & its quality could not pass.

Of course I went on carrying out the sun                    Of course

I brought out kettles for forensics. I wore a southern accent, a prehensile tail. I could slow it down to ask fine questions.

          as if a geode          a geode issuing a pietà
           could divide forgiveness by lamentations

Hunger like what. Hunger like
What hunger like what?


XX. TO SPEAK THE BOTANY OF LIMBS

listen to this poem

i was born in a land of reckoning. when i came to the water i went for it, foaming in the
motherfucking waves, perfect – in the new world i wore syllables.

i wore my body along some light.
i, worrisome light
forced out of pigtails
shining down on this ditch like jesus. fungus on the water

i am not going to stay here with my hands calling down trees.
none of this red range happened to supply the water with ankles
a little more rouge in the mud

                    *

now that i have them i starve off my breasts and in the hospital, wear tweed pants under orange silk. pleasure takes a wall to shatter holes, her mare blind to the zipper. i would love all the lands with my hands on his hymen. scorpion ablaze

i speak the sureness of bread.          all warmth violent.          a cup of light erasing

  the wall     i answer to the floor.     i have the mouth     for taking it

          a trace fetters my hands          even with great fear

          to be astounding. i move     inside me. i let the cling fail

   then escape       my eye, crease in a folded face

     through the wound.          passing water.

                    *

eyelet penumbral, carry me to a history; the bull by her golden braid.
my harness & my opera glass. to look at me, god sent silence. my light shone to ash.

did you call me girl?
      i am not who you think
but i am.

XVIII. RICOCHET

listen to this poem

this is my appleseed // i am going down
in throat glow.. suck
to the bone, hilt of the deep-sea,
thumb striking off ember, her cock

disguised by darkness she throws
at herself, lips on the trigger. her nipple
could burst and scorch
a place for passing.
s/he opens

her mouth & clamps
down. the shoreline
a fist reflexively closing
in amidah & trees.

if there could have been
one, i would have carried the way
around it. would’ve blown
datura past the threshold.

my love, this
this is for flame.

on the roof
in a storm
where the steam starts.


Deborah Brandon lives in Tucson, Arizona. She holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her writing has appeared in Hotel Amerika, Puerto del Sol, Cadillac Cicatrix, Moonshot, Evergreen Chronicles, and elsewhere.
8.10 / October 2013 :: Queer 4

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