Two Poems – Emily Griffin


Instantly cold was the way for the wall all cracked and creased. And when the time arrives the time the time wrapped up. Wraps up like wasps do all covered in skeleton flowers. The king saunters the way a king saunters moves slow for the time and the when. With no bed frame just mattress on wool floor cold seeps night of soured lips.

The snow wasn’t clean but still fit for a grin on a daybreak. Hands so cold when a heart so warm so beating so bleating in a field like a virus. What does the chewed up nickel taste of, the brain tastes of metal and the saliva pools on the pillow. When the virus runs cold what then.

Pining after plums sweet summertime plums the bottles he sways mostly empty hold careful to the rail with my muddy nails. Hold careful careful of the teeth waiting around the corners. The teeth waiting. The teeth. Waiting for the sun, when the glasses might shimmer. But the sun cracked up. Watch for it. Watch for the change. Watch for the cracks in skin, in the whole hurt skin. The whole everyone, running. The chalk outlines aren’t up for the taking, the drafting the moving.

Act like wine doesn’t cling to the carpet. To begin there is no open road. And that, beaming, makes up for the empty open river. The endless stream. The hurt that runs through it. Attend to the cacti. The brown brown bottles. The whistle. Attend that shrill. Attend to the way the body knows. To the way the body knows nothing. The door might break when it is given space. Do not attend the space. This is to say, someone is calling from the rooftops. Their hands clap with someone’s.  

Intend to wake through the center of the room intend great grace in the presence of some sun. The largeness of the room prevents the finding of its center. The mattress akilter. The milk crates are not for my body, they are for the things. The dresser is not for my body my things. Some of the things for the body. The rain for the body. The snow for my body. Her metal for my brain.  

The body for my body. The cobblestones were not escalators the bed cannot but a mountain. There was something in saying that (how about that) that made the red dress fail. There never was a red dress just a black dress like a black and blue dress dresser. Dresser up in fur the best. Quiet down with the quiet downs  the polite thing to do. Floating on through target practice. It is dissolving in gum tissues, the walls shrinking.



The white white bowl the sugar cubes. Keep the brawl where it stays. The white white mug and the tick tock clock the burden of the button a blaring arrival.

Mourning a perfectly narrow roof & a place with no static. Call the static watch it grow with that tornado sky outside. The white bowls from the living room cracking the body bawling get out get up get gone get back. Any room is a waiting room, is a distance. Any body is a waiting room, is a distance. Get salt over rejecting the window’s curtains has never swept so sleepy so quiet such lemon chiffon the wooden floorboards plaster walls (cracking) and the curtains sway sweep swing swing what storm is this? What tornado do we see? How slow it moves. How much might it mourn. Despite: the sun yawns like the grapefruit. Perched. The white white pillow case mixed remnants the cold shoulders touching.

A bookshelf broken: the transversal gray touching the soot and the grime and the fence posts. The fence posts are not broken. This means clarity. The shrubs planted last spring tearing and torn at their respective seams: where the leaves might have grown hot smog instead. Hot smog is a kind of drowning. Keeping an eye on the center. A center to spin through. A center is a grounding. The wide couch cushions long since parted. Feathers in every square inch their encasings ripped to skinny strips. The overhang translates into a blackness with which you were not previously familiar. A blackness fire soot in your eyes tint screen across your body, whole. Keep your eye on me. Charcoal coating arms rumbling enamel.  

Touching walls slightly wet most cold most damp touching walls most unaware. Most secretive the root vegetables rotting in the refrigerator. The refrigerator does not mind. This matters in dinner making. The coffee beans scatter across the counter when the cabinets scream. Skitter skittering to the root of the mouth. Little bugs living in the ceilings in the walls in the wood.

Little bug, little bug, what do you have to say to me? Too early for the ligaments. Too early for the break down the stairs now please love please go back down the stairs with the coffee beans the webs and the pithy fruits breaking down from your shoulders drown from your shoulders drawn away the white white bowl slivered in the mourning shadow.



About Emily Griffin

A poet in constant transit. View all posts by Emily Griffin

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