A poem in the making
1.
Waking, I look beyond the window
of four rooms
watch a leaf moving back and forth
(aren’t they dead when they fall?)
This is not the poem in the making
the leaf is not my concern
cormorants and seals caked in black slime
pain my existence
the perpetrators harpoon my guts
my sky is blue, but I am wary
of its death
no government intervention, save for
some lone sailor bobbing in an orange-rubber sea
slick black hull ramming its existence
I am shouting at you, but you cannot hear me
I am female, but you cannot see me
I am woman, can your hear my voice?
2.
Today, I will have meat on the table
in here I’m a carnivore. How I hated
peas at seven, back when we raced through
the wooden wire door for the juiciest piece of crackling
siblings smiling through the apple sauce,
with god at hand
This afternoon, I traversed rows of meat trays, the aroma
of my childhood swam through me like gravy boats and
lashings of mint sauce
now my mixed table of lamb and pumpkin bake
finds no saving grace for battery hens
just like this poem
3.
I despair at the thought of losing you
one fuck would have done
now you prolong each sunset
and my fingers invent new nightie folds
you stroke your trope
and I stroke my self-indulgence
here in this poem
like a naked semaphore I wait for pleasure
the pull of a man’s head from womb
past crazy thighs to where my heavy flesh
undulates in lucid points
how I like a good suck
Helen Hagemann
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