Kat Dixon

Look, White Curtain, Drag the Floor

Anyway, we were inside the turning
over stomach called a wave and then,

for quiet, out on top of the roof again
as ourselves. I held the light out

with my little hand. As yourself, you
were thinking about someone else,

and – that’s it – I didn’t mind being
with you then. I held the light out

with my little hand. Anyway, the ocean
wouldn’t throw up anything but foam

that hour and big, ugly birds. A wave
came out of it and went under it

for quiet. A damn big, ugly bird. As
myself, I moved the floorboards.

Any other us might not know to walk there;
white curtains dragged. On the roof,

I turned your whole stomach, made foam.
A wave came out of it and moved

the floorboards. I was thinking about
someone else. No bird to cover up

the streetlamp, I held the light out
with my damn ugly, little hand.

--

Fruit

I think I am you’re welcome. Make a play and make it
last from here to the county line. There’s nowhere left

for home: I’ve eaten all pies, all housewares resembling
pie. A dog won’t bark, but I do not think I dreamed

those siren sounds – I was standing full up, I was rolling
flat crust for a pie. Nowhere for home, we had every one

of us come out of an airplane, having been shaped for
seats in an airplane in the model of fruit grown old-treed

for a pie. You’re welcome, I think I am too, I am shy of an
exit, dry-eyed. Noah made a play out of fruit, and it turned

out to be very bad. As punishment, I wear peach-colored
clothing from here to the county line. I was rolling flat crust,

dry-eyed. Standing full up, we had every one of us come
out of an airplane, all housewares resembling pie. Having

been shaped for a dream, we were shy of an exit. Noah
made a play out of fruit, and an airplane came out of it.

I do not think I dreamed it, I had already eaten all pies.
Nowhere for home, I wore peach-colored clothing from

here to the exit, dry-eyed. Noah made a siren sound, we
were every one of us an airplane, having been rolled flat

as a pie. It turned out to be very bad. As punishment, I
think I am. There’s nowhere left for home, you’re welcome,

I was old-treed and shaped to be shy. We were every
one of us making a play out of siren sounds. I do not think

I dreamed an exit, I was rolling flat crust for a pie. All
housewares resembling siren sounds, we had every one

of us come out. I do not think we dreamed an airplane, we
were standing full up, dry-eyed. Noah, make a play and make

it last until there’s nowhere left for siren sounds. A dog
won’t bark. A dog won’t bark from here to the county line.

--

Early Late Riser

Slashed at the arm, I know you, how you poem. I hope you
Wake up in this timeline again. To receive a compliment

I want to make myself the opposite of that. A sound stops
Brief of a door or were there two sounds. The sour smell

Comes up again in my same chest – can you believe I wrote
The same house as your house and the same chest as my

Chest in it because I could never. I could never hear the ocean
The way the ocean hears the ocean. To receive a compliment

You walked out toward the ocean, made a poem. I hope you
Wake up. The opposite of that, I slashed myself at the arm.

--

Everyone Wrote a Bomb

Come down now
We are coming down

Into the blue
Backward

Absolutely what you want
Sort of sound. Everyone,

Listen. Everyone,
Go ahead and write a bomb.

I was inside of it
I was inside a blue sweater

When the sea came in
The sea fat full of starfish

Little hands for where the people
Are

On the street
On the long fat street toward

The ocean
Coming down.

Maggie wrote the sound:
Big fat bombs, blue

Come down now inside
The seaweed

What you absolutely want.
Listen. Everyone,

Come down. Where the people
Are

Where the people are
On the street

On the street going backward
Little hands opened flat, fat

For the ocean
There is a sound.

 

All poems by Kat Dixon