7.04 / April 2012

Five Poems

listen to these poems

Her Disco [5]

(she who) tightens the throat

(she who) causes the throat to breathe

our scorpion queen. Our meat
run rampant run equals

bhū: to become, to grow
equals equal.

Equal equals becomes, be.
The angle of incidence

the angle of reflection.

We gather at her,
the oracle of her, & are



on a brown plain straddling
     hands on abdomen    on womb
over old tin wash bin
     and water   pushes the pulling of her
legs   spread   over the opening

     her hands grasp
grasp and thrust   at the rolled tin edges
     body leaning   over abdomen
once a girl’s flat everything

     her knees knead the air
the tops and sides of her feet
     brown   where water and dirt
join and cling

     join and cling
old tin wash bin   and water
     the pushing and pull
the hem of her   unraveling

     flimsy fabric   quiet skin
quiet   empty   abdomen

     with dark towels
she mops the floor
     water follows
into deep canals
     runs up the grade
up the small petal dress
     she   leaning

out over water and bin
     a woman   wears her dress
     a reflection of hard bones
against the black

Her Disco [7]

Our breath is our spirit,
we are with air.

Imagination vesicles,
is our vehicle through,

in a corner
of our cabinet, & a case

with many small then smaller
then smaller (-est)

cupboards & the levels
that fold out, that rise

to what’s beneath-Ah.


where the wind was low, where
two older sisters rolled
on the packed
dirt of the pasture,

                                                  it’s round like red dripping
out of a nose. The boy
goes to get Father-now
these three of six are afraid.

                         Morning fog reflected in morning dew
and fists fall onto faces
                                                       as the rubber hose falls
to soft back of young girls’ thighs.

There is a mathematical way that dew falls.

Match Girls

The old farmhouse surrounded
     by winds, weeds, rusting mechanical
parts (wheels & mowers & rakes)     the sun
     beating on disintegrating shingles

Inside     crouched on haunches     two small girls intent
     on burning
back bowed     ribs & shoulder
     blades & spines under thin summer t-shirts
or tank tops tinged with shit & sun-sweat
     barefoot or in barn shoes,
knots knit so tight

Inside     the brown tin vent opens
     a way down

Inside     the falling, smoldering-
     the physical body     falls
but sulfur remains
     smoke remains

What it is to make light
     make destruction
to burn until there is nothing left to burn:

     the lit match turns  &  twists in the air
as in a girl trying to get away in the air
     but someone’s got her wrist  & red moves
down the length
     down the body

& the flame goes
& only a rising stream of white,
     bodiless white


Lisa Fink's chapbook Her Disco is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press in May 2012. Other poems have appeared in magazines like Ecotone, Minnesota Review, Spinning Jenny, Jellyroll Magazine, and Forklift, Ohio. A past recipient of a Fulbright Fellowship to Mongolia as well as a Henry Hoyns Fellowship, Lisa is just now finishing up an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Virginia, where she teaches a writing-centered course on culture and the environment.
7.04 / April 2012