Kristi Maxwell



from RE-

"and who she is and he/
are templates"
               -Lisa Fishman


Cycle (Coat/Verb/Touch)

A plot for tourists.
Ascots halved where need hides single file
foreshadowed with her fate imbedded there. Chores to break waste
from time are assigned to their most precious robot
he bought for them. Her fate a face with a timeline of features
with the nose always the future, for its projection. She took to the robot
like purring takes the neck of a cat. Though never did it move her
as did seams busting as did their communication
that shared communion with hooks evolved from the action of sewing
evolved to a lexicon that cons them: so?
For those who knit single handedly and whose turn it is
to pick the object for nit-picking, he and she still fuss over
the better predicate because they can't agree if direct objects
are serfs in the Do Fields, and if they'd mind.
A pond returns as a hammock
that stomachs their swinging. Water that builds
their weight. Open the rented forest for him, said the vision
in its tangible voice, hoisted up like a scorecard
by which she could implore its worth
by how he receives it: as borrowed or a burrow they own
through dirt through their hands. The currency has been depleted as is
the heat they procured for their voyage into heat's antithesis.
Flesh refrigerators stocked with warmth that spoils like something
of substance.


Leverage leeched onto each attempt. It beached itself in their heads
disguised as a pledge. Their delicate campaign
in this land used harpoons stowed in masonries thinned
in their provisions. When suspicion grew, she clipped her
vowels the way the wings of tamed fowls are.
They clucked right into the right hands.
Seemly goal of proximity. They disliked distance
only for what it kept them from.
So a eulogy was writ was ripped like clouds
during night the clouds they supposed were paste
plastering the morning up then plastic bags mimicking
clouds and failing. Logic is a device that keeps wonder at bay.
The bay where they docked and will dock again.


Harnessed to their accidents with bits
tissue-built, they strain toward ice. Fault the direction
down, the splay of vendors'
whitest buns
summed up with meat
and condiments condemned beneath.
She has gone twice into his throat to lift wreckage off wind
on which his lungs intended to dine: to keep the 'n' there
debris followed her fingers out as do beach things
strung to tide.
When he is an ox, she alternates
between onyx and field to be tediously
plowed. In this way connected, as by synapses,
snaps that bring the brain to
recollection: her fingers
coming out with a comb of bone
that had been once more home in the inn of his membrane
though an inn it did not begin in.
They make humble up as they go, or it gets on
on its own.