Kristi Maxwell

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21112460.post-32210600652610264692008-02-16T18:35:00.000-05:002008-02-16T18:36:52.812-05:00Kristi MaxwellTO EXERCISE THIS ASTONISHMENT (3) How can she dilute the parade of spectators without our complaint and the pause of our supple horns. Pander is the bear in the zoo of our most likely deceptions; the bear we wave to and feed. Repentance duty does not obfuscate, doing that refuses duty, do fused to will flounders with the knife by which one is offered up through the off-ing. With sorrow we waive. She suffers through hallelujah. On the backs of heat-slicked horses we shine like no thing or like it is no thing to do so. An antique lapel holds court for blue ribbons as evidence of application, of applying oneself toward and the inevitable win. And so a breeze is how we understand a compliment to the coming cool. Itinerant broom stagnated by such flawless tile, her socks again, our socks against the august notion. The violence of a bell. What order would insist we suspend gazelles in our muscles' definitions. An order we wad with our resistance and toss. That good and not good are not mutually exclusive. We share with her each guise of tea. The collective mouth for serving. TO EXERCISE THIS ASTONISHMENT (4) Bright, we answer first and loudly when asked to describe; we have learned what illumination omits from character, we have learned what fools her needles best, and we use our learning as sea foam that hooks the shore for recruits. She scatters fame over the graves. A model car bolted to stone and a doll we carve a hand to dole out to eternal. Sweet abacus hung like antlers amused with flies we count; we count, ridiculous we, we've found a job to account for our existing. Mais oui a new job. Interpreter bankrupt of omens. I have photographed my birthmark from five angles to submit, and I watch to see my submission scrutinized with care. She bathes in our interest that unplugs fountains. It is like this daily, and when it is not, desire is finally conjured, and the world's ankle folds and snaps to secure its bed rest. Wind packs into our flapping shirts. We dedicate ourselves to each alarm, battle the braying with response. Kristi Maxwell's poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in Forklift, Court Green, How2, the Modern Review, and La Petite Zine. Her book, Realm Sixty-four, is available from Ahsahta Press.RealPoetikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14919138604759914372noreply@blogger.com