Cami Park

Archive for September 2nd, 2010|Daily archive page

My dead smell like lemons

In Fashion, Household, Poetry on September 2, 2010 at 7:55 am

Pinwheel
Rebecca Loudon

I was tending the garden when a bee flew
up my blouse stung my left nipple
I was claimed then
I wanted to be a better woman
reaching back with a corked finger
into fruit
I carry ice
worship fur

My body is split
& wet in spite of alcohol
with the goaty head man
nails curling down
becoming cloven
I’m not alarmed
I like the pillow
slick

I fold the clothes of my dead
into plastic bags dresses shirts
socks slippers the whole shebang
my dead smell like lemons
their teeth are marshmallow white
my sister is perfect
she has a perfect body
her hair is a gold wasp’s nest
I fold her Snow White pajamas
into a square

I see the reptile man on television
& realize it is my husband
holding a two-headed turtle to the camera
all three of them smile

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No Tell Books: Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

In Photography, Poetry, Sex on September 2, 2010 at 7:28 am

This instruction is holy.
Rebecca Loudon, from ROMANCE #1 IN G MINOR

Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

Cadaver Dogs is the ribĀ  Adam never forgot.
Cadaver Dogs is your outside voice, inside. Having sex.
Cadaver Dogs will not self-medicate.
Cadaver Dogs is a chalk outline on asphalt. Children are nearby.
Cadaver Dogs is not a right, it’s a necessity.
Cadaver Dogs is the wheel that came off the trolley and landed in your soup. Small trolley, big soup.
Cadaver Dogs is female.
Cadaver Dogs is not blameless.
Cadaver Dogs tells secrets
is relentless
knows you like your skin
Cadaver Dogs is an anatomist’s waking dream.
Cadaver Dogs wants you.
Cadaver Dogs won’t tell anyone, will tell everyone, requires hydration, could compromise well-being.
Cadaver Dogs is sacred.
Cadaver Dogs cannot be ignored.