Two Poems

Those little plastic number puzzles

 

given out at grade school parties:

  slide this tile over here, and—

 

eventually you’d have made a clearing. A way to move through the world.

 

Each ridged edge hooked under the next, lagged at the nudge.

One step closer to yes.

 

Joy of click-click getting there,

getting it down right.

 

Down right: perfect-heart i. Down right: cartwheel on the lawn,

roundoff, Roundup, emerald sheen. Knife-blade crease, designer jeans.

Line and spoke, black and white, scrape of chalk in long straight lines.

Slide right, down right, never fall.

 

Keep one space open so you can move at all,

  at all.

 

 

 

Linnaean

 

Lepidopterist. Taxonomist. Sewer

of tiny stitches. Trompe-l’œil

 

in the entry hall, villa engraved

on a grain of rice. Twenty-four

 

K pure, frictionless, edgeless,

poreless, ageless, more is

 

less is more is an eye

for an eye, tooth ultraviolet

 

in flawless bite. Black granite

antibacterial gold-standard singularity

 

of the quantified self. Rain-X

on the windshield,

 

shiny new phone

in its matte-black box.

 

 

 

 

Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet’s The Greenhouse, winner of the Frost Place Prize, was published by Bull City Press in 2014; Tulips, Water, Ash, was awarded the 2009 Morse Poetry Prize. Her poems have recently appeared in Rhino, Zyzzyva, The Collagist, Blackbird, and Kenyon Review Online. She writes, edits, and teaches in Portland, Oregon. (www.lisagluskinstonestreet.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Issue #61 August 2016
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