Apartment Poetry Quarterly

2A              2B              2C              2D              2E              2F





From garden to gauntlet in the year of what comes next.
            From ugly to ugly and armed. That hunt. One hot vex.

Babe of the break, a record heat, and I the dirty of honey
            of a wasp honed. One way to live under sun or money

is to break, baby. That bone. Love like how a wasteland
            welcomes back. Like to eat alive and start with the hand

you asked for. Love like from summer to summer to no
            land like the land that rises to meet my spine and throw.

My terror my weather again. A blonde streak in the air
            and two thumbs of wing rapt in a fist of winter where

wants are wolves and what was sweeter this way stalks.
            Look, we last for days. But my rose to hip ratio talks

a good game over. I’d wild you over. I’d go down milk,
            the way you talk on two feet. You, full buck. That sulk,

from heart to hart in the year of coming down. Heart,
            I like to put a singing shaft through you. The good part,

a flesh to flash. A fence we go down fools for from top
            to touch. That tail. My turn. From the beg to the stop.



You, me, that greenery. Love your forest. That a farm? Here’s a knife.



Doll of unrest—acolyte of a freaked David in hard light—darling, that



had better not be a pinnacle. That’s been had. This is me, past perfect—



my body language, little bite of sea notwithstanding, is postpositive.



But sometimes, I admit, I’m a belltower when sober. A little tungsten.



Yeah, I take what I was told, soft industry. The bulbs swell. Tiny suns,



no roar. Example. A brassy tongue nested in a lobe most nothing makes.



Bad example. A corset gone up in a good church is what I call a training



wheel. As in, watch me hitch up my keel. Watch that curve! And that,



little death, is how you take the wheel. Where were we? Land or sea?



No matter what schooled me if every schoolyard grows its degree



between the bushes. Between rude lines I could be what’s between



a bell and its clapper. An urge and eye. Or—whatever, a thigh and



a thigh. Then, I was presented. A garter and snake. A nice ring to it.


After we belled, red bloom broke and I could’ve helped it. Break
thee the command the begging asks for and the halter the horses

strain the mercy out of. My restraining men spoke less but lay
cracking in the moonish hunting halo of spring and crashed me

after my boudoir rebelled. Now it’s april in the abattoir and you
and a non-blade of nonsense will brave me, gift of freakery and

all. Foreign irreversed body and all its bad. I was a sleeper bride,
chest full of war folded precisely. For the world won’t change

the action can, but. Red bloomed and could. Was it—in a word—
want, or what won? To rebel at both sides for sake of wanting

more than that is enough. It is summer in the epic that damned
thy lion to thy den. That was enough. When in fell a horse hard.

Up now go gold gods, older than half-life of a yoke and tower
kicked over. My men bring violets for violence and ensuing fruit

rolling to the wintry hallelujah. My men burn a book of me and
your piece of me. My men, my men. Enough is enough it came

together simply as red washing what could’ve helped itself. Wait.
For wish of loyalty I rode war and then the backs of the horses

rang red. And red. O rented ruin of love’s ruin, halo be thy name.
Run up the flag of a body clock rung and cast out the unbearable

and tributary light.