Amy King



If an Aging Woman I Am


If plagiarism’s ceiling

fan in my diluted body

leaves a salted outline,

wet and grainy then


These boots come

from the little girl who,

folding a kite, grows toward

a weed, a tiny root growing

seed in tyrannical hues of this

checkout line’s butterfly wife.


No wait, these slippers come

from a part of me that eats

from the shimmering cloud's

white spoon where

she milks horses who rush

the cusp of sleep


Literally, these steel toes come

from making love in a parachute

basket I convince myself

of the danger in expiration

dates as our harmonica doubles


Cremate and billow with cream

turning song beneath

the rug’s nakedness,

cocooning future corpses

we pull closer and lie upon



I’m the Man Who Loves You


The beer has warmed to us.

Like a bear grovels for leftovers,

we are used to blood

in our veins, and other amenities.


Why does every sentence

between us

condemn loneliness?


Even in the womb,

we take note of beings

ushered past.


Love has always been

the woman in the lake.

She is her own sister,

the buoyancy of heartbreak.


Lately, I have had to trick

myself to read

with the promise of a book.


But mostly, I am taken

by the sense

of a blue suede dress

that shrinks to fit you.



The Others


A chess game matches me walking through towns,


wringing pawns behind clocks, days into solitary knights—


Plumed disciples of the world plan religions back to me,


tying strings from my waist to the roots of seconds. Even


dragonflies stammer below the hold of a styrofoam cup


tailored for softer, quieter ears. As the holy man rides,


his hat flies gently behind him, off his head forever, a man.


I have in passage fixed his image. On nearby satellites,


the wind picks up like the bible of leather pants


I never used more than my god-given carte blanche.


Others pray upon hearing my name, whenever I repeat it.



A Throne for the Human Genome


Miscast elephants grate utopia

to bits. I could kill them,

you said as if ants held no place

on the musk of earth, as if unhinged

meant alone. Is it just that cuts

on the hand turn to homes for ghosts

of a tongue, eager and bony-mouthed?

And me with my flying sister always

turning to cancer with long hair black

and flowing; our latest swan song

breathes the personal space of trees.

It’s just that the intersection

of our briefly-lit lives reflects

the economic umber of gunpowder.

Consider the bleach in my pores,

tourniquets that hold our souls’ dusted

fight as visions pour forth: we play

the insects of heartbreak stampeding a path

that bends skylines for life’s fallen few.



Mi Poesias


The fly bothers

no one in

a softly split

brand of sleep

where the ageless

arm’s cloud & wrist


leaving her

with a string

in her hand

pointing up.