Poetry: C.M. Keehl
an act of desperation
we have all done this kind of thing
so I’ll send a postcard
because light is tricky only being measured in meeting of crests
I was here once
where the moon crests the pines to light a pool
I sat in summer heat
if you play your cards right
I’ll give you my not skinny & dip into nude
send something raw an unkind thing of
blood streaking
down the craters my thighs
of what is womanhood
but a diabolical secret of good lighting
I never claimed to be anything more
animal & can’t help surviving
why my lips shape numbers
I never said to form a separation
of skin from fat
it’s as glamorous as you think
to say time is only lengths measured in what I missed
a tall ginny tonic that took me four months
New York City crushed artisanal
to become queen of cool
chomping ice my jaw
forgetful that force depends on distance
between plump lips & the bar
I repeated voir dire & something french
like my father liked when I was dressed
to impress his friends eating ice cream by the gallons
but he also wanted me thin
so that someday another man would want me
I keep circling back where I was here once
a cause & effect which made it cause
the wanted to be unctuous desirous
all semantics of truths of how to be pretty
by sucking in hard & having tiny wrists
that are still strong enough to
to flaunt the times truth wasn’t important
when truth was I only went there
for snacks to be adored
for amount of mass I was lacking
how newtonian how american apple pie
& how many calories really
can I not consume before I am velocity
a lovely 140 mph not the speed of light
but as close as I could get to be seen but not heard
so I starved for anyone to call me goddess
all energy curving light around my waist in an action
to excite I only said no twice
for sake of one day finding formula
to being loved more all mad reasoning
but equalling divine quality
where I can digest postulations
of how I wrong it was to stop spelling what was temporary
everything is temporary
& I can still taste what sweet I lost myself
& keep trying to find in scribbles
all subtly like the lord goes away
with each ray of light is a history of
how the perfect cream melts down my hand
before I can catch it.
abode alone in suburbia// chaos terrain
“and gradually she lost her fear”
—Ovid, Metamorphoses
New Hudson & I’m not sure if I can see
Europa/ is supposed to exit eclipse
little moon with apparent youth
& hypothesis of water
it’s so smooth the consistency
he asked were we still/ lovers?
in june/ on monday & jupiter was brightest scaring sky
beauty is behooved by those who surrender &
& I was survival mode of faded
pavement heat was chugging water
4 times/ diurnal at least from my nalgene
if to be alone/ by moving back to my parents’ home
at least I will be hydrated to gulp down
throat /nothing cold but water
the pool was green/ the grass was dried & yellow
I had never considered anyone a lover
of secrets/my story/ of abduction
& capacious needs
small talk revolved mostly disaster
& paradoxical reconstruction/ retrospect
looking to connect/ discovery
of more moons the more/ you drink
the thirstier you become
& once a strawberry moon was/ occasion of sleep
I opt getting messed up on top
my jeep / never lonely with constant affection
of needy mosquitoes/ I was up
toward space & silence to get inside
my body & solve/ terrarium of self
destruction/ I had grown but am still
confused with how
& what’s that virus buzzing around now
anyway wasn’t everything felt in an
ancient way before/ sentimentalism
& origin sentimentality/ differed
reasoning / when did it become
so pathetic singing deplorable
an uncomfortable/ volume
by every chorus/ man that took liking
to the transformation of wolves
running night down my arms
that took turns holding me down/ demanding hallelujahs
to rise up my heaving shoulders
I’m being broad/ of course with colloquialisms
/manifestations the white bull stealing/ me to sea
read cows of the neighboring towns
read lakes surrounding Michigan
read vessel/ manic & how love
can be a really annoying amplification
& he read to catalogue me with the woman
in lock in how I was living but to die/ is to
shine & I was always good spinning no good
loving but am stealing
internet from the gods to make a play list
to show my guts the
a perfect dystopia zero to emptying out
my myth/ youth was lone & wolf running out
pounding water/ forming
poems in shower & cleanliness is next to
fading the choir away
despite the looming shadow/ spirit demon
are you coming for me tuesday?
C.M. Keehl is part dreamer/part destroyer/but all alien. She currently lives in the suburbs of Detroit with her dog Carver. She is the poetry editor at Dirty Chai. Her microchap, UNTIL THE FOXES, is out with Ghost City Press. Most recent poems are/forthcoming in: Up The Staircase Quarterly, Vending Machine Press, Spy Kids Review, and Reality Beach. Keep your eyeballs peeled @CMKeehl.
Image: shutterstock.com
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