he, he, he – a giggle
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
ceiling fan –
what a four winged liar
to make me think that’s his breath on my neck, his wind
his attitude about moving my hair
he takes things to a jar, leaves it
lidless – a load off my lungs
he won’t call it stealing but i know better
we discuss ‘we’
decide it’s just a drawbridge
and move slowly to where the other is coming from
i don’t look down, i love him
so i crawl into my phone
fit my drink and bed and toes
bring my suitcase full of little things
and give him handfuls
the space bursts
it will, i become millions
collect me like a paperclip
hold poems together with me
and promise nothing
a conversation when no one’s in the room, when not even the room is in the room
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
he says,
“i’m a little sweet on you, you’re sticky.”
she admits,
“i’m more than sweet on you. i’m burning sugar on your outside. all the pollen is tiny candy. i fall to pieces in your morning coffee.
he sips, he thinks she’s
“hot.”
she’s sweating, so she’s naked a lot.
she wonders,
“are the walls of my empty apartment his temple. am i walking around his temple in my underwear. is his temple happy to have me. am i alone here. does he think he’s going mad. why can’t i open the windows.”
he thinks
he is going mad, but he favors delirium. talks to her everyday. is narcoleptic when she’s singing. makes friends with all her hair.
he pretends to act like a greeting card.
he asks,
“i love you.”
she responds,
“i’ll tell you that later, i’ll tell you that again later.”
and it makes me think something i won’t say
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
i can’t wait to buy a router with you.
i want us to be the type of people
other people steal the internet from.
we’re not assholes.
we’re in the kitchen touching each other
on the counter next to the garbage disposal switch.
and the hand mit with the hole in it that keeps us burning.
and the fancy pans we’re afraid to use.
actually
we’re on skype instead. both a little naked.
you say you like my skin – it’s like a desert with dresses in it.
i say i’m a little wetter than that.
go play in the sand box. use your imagination. i do it all the time.
i know you’re far away
shut up. alright, i miss your e-voice now.
let’s talk about buying the things we have the money for.
plane tickets. coffee tables we won’t drink coffee on.
coffee tables we’ll probably fuck on.
fuck tables just made the budget -
what are we doing?
stealing my neighbors net.
you’re video isn’t working. it’s very funny.
the camera has you frozen with a look like you’re in love or something.
“!X!?!O”
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Announcements
the caption at her feet says,
“shall i run?”
she is with a puzzled face
a face of which one of the pieces is missing.
the picture on the front of the box she was born in
suggests some sort of cloud or wrinkle was once used to fill the space.
she frowns very often,
but some things don’t have to be permanent.
next, a painting in progress:
a dandelion seed
pinned to the cheek of a young, toothless girl
the other children make fun of her
call her a wish, a walk-in closet, chipped toe-nail polish.
the work is finished with a freckle–
the artist joins her, says
“your shoes are on the wrong feet!”
but she is barefoot.
“!X!?!O”
says the thought-cloud, the older face.
no one knows me here.
i run, i choose.
