I won’t keep you in suspense. I was born and then at a strip club crying for those tender people whose children put in private the final touches on god. also there is a meal being prepared that you won’t be able to finish before you die. the preparer of that meal has a least favorite creature and believes hundreds of corpses were dragged from eden by animals that were trying to experience joy. save it when you can
the last of the robot’s short grief
~nearness~
we share
an invisible
drop of rain
but not
a wrist
(the grass
looks a little
lost
~farness~
seeing
a frog
makes frog
an orphan
have I
the poem
we wrote
rain
and the pulse
to god
a scar
Andrew Kozma‘s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Redactions, Subtropics, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret, won the Zone 3 First Book Award, and his second book, Orphanotrophia, will be published by Cobalt Press in 2019.
~*
Song of the Shut-in
Winter banks itself with paper snow. The wind
puffs like a dying man, every step a struggle.
Trees like cardboard matches. Sky a veil
of worn tights. A lawn of toenail clippings.
My skin cracks and flakes, my teeth break
thin-skinned lips, and the fire flails its brittle limbs.
Summer burrows into the earth like a fever. A hand
to the cold window. My palm ghosts the glass.
*~
–
tattoo
the spider in my left eye
is also
on the kitchen
floor
of a house
that’s gone
–
lifelike
fog has a better
memory
than rain
–
grief
yes there is one
footstep
left
–
slight revision on the following private publications:
Animal Masks On the Floor of the Ocean, 114 pages, 10.00
poems, June 2019
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
*
MOTHERLINGS, 52 pages, 4.00
poems, June 2019
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
–
film
poison ivy
kept me
from the petting
zoo
–
broom
blood
out past
curfew
–
window
stop
kissing
your brothers
–
pill
but mom
even sleep
dissolves
–
–
frogsong
depression
decorates
a bird
–
miscarry
perhaps a deer
had stepped
on my wrist
–
osmosis
the son takes with him a knife into the bathroom and
–
church
entering the body after a stroke
–
sex
two
as if they fear
a third
–
angels
mystique
that surrounds
a small town
search party
–
chthonic
a prayer asking god to brush your teeth
–
hunger
my first
backpack
–
fraction
sadness
over something
deleted
–
we died
in that dream
but continued
to understand.
I thought
sleeping
skin-to-skin
with my children
would cure
your fear
of flossing. every bomb
touches god.
I forgot
to be in pain.


