Poetry: Amanda McCormick
Bow to my thighs or I’ll break you with them.
Anthills of poison, delivery track.
Pump up the sex if you want to chew
in the new year as her cavities grow.
I couldn’t centralize my stomach
after you’d gone; I left my heart behind a fishnet.
Flopping like bait in a fishnet,
my thighs bounced on the pillow top.
Lying there, we were centralized
like an anthill on a sunny field.
As the new year changed
to the old, my heart still had its pump.
By March, I’d pumped
your spit from the Internet. Fishnet
socks for the new year high
on my thighs
till the anthill was dirt.
Home to centralize, I’d formed a union.
Communion to centralize our gusto,
pump it up and out.
Steal the queen and the anthill overthrows
her fishnet power but that can’t stop me
because now I walk upright, on my thighs—
lucky number, third new year since we’ve kissed.
New years go by because blossoms fall
but I am centralized to being twenty-five,
though, as your beard gets older, I devise its tickle on my thighs
I wish this anthill was more than tunnels
to other anthills, distant queen—
new year, baby, now we can be free
from his fishnet tricks.
Centralized, running high on a hilltop
pumping my arms
to the beat of my thighs
I’ll drag a fishnet through each anthill
passed, thighs tingling as the new year comes
again to centralize your ambition, pump me for my secrets.
Cuban Numerology 9/22, elephant. tongue. frog.
White; height of a mountaintop. Slipping
from grip—oh oh switch spit. And admit you
love it when my hair sticks to my forehead. I salute your curls
as an oak leaf sways before rain. Beautiful you,
let me listen at your breast and crave the need
to impress your skin into me.
Prince of mine: amphibian before me! Sticky
are your kisses and I like your breath, your sweat,
the way you look at me under moonlight. I hate blood
on my fingers; I hate bile in my eyes and I tried to save
you from my trap, hidden under leaves and twigs
like a hole under woods. Cut me one more line and I’ll write
you a couplet, frogman. I’ll cook one up for you at sunrise.
This room’s so big before me.
Amanda McCormick is the founding curator of Ink Press Productions in Baltimore. Her work has appeared in The Unroarean, Sonora Review, Imitation Fruit, kindling, Clare, and others. Her chapbook, Structure, was published by Ink Press in 2009, and Amanda is now available from Ink Press Productions.
Photo credit: Alexey Sergeev