POETRY | ISSUE SIX
Two Poems
♦
By JUSTIN WYMER | Fall 2015
c. 1915
Dear E.,
Three thin friends were given spells to cast and I thought
again of you. A shoe
appeared last night in the ashtray on the eave, the blush of deer-
offal. I’m not privy to
the nature of the spells. My groin has split from the heft
of me. Two-
inch declivity sharp-banked like a taproot knew to attach there but
was pulled soon
after it sucked the glib. The doctor tells me I must not force-feed
my organs too
often lest I count on the long fidelity of laming as companion, and
rule. A rule you
and I agreed should not be savored, but gulped, and expand
therein, pitched as the clue
of blood on a pocket square. Square as the expiration sticker on a pack
of numbles, blue
and globbish under clear film in a butcher shop. In my own bed
now, I can’t fool
myself into thinking the sky is light with snow, or that I’m a sash or
feather come unglued.
If I loved you less, I would tell you I’ve never not
loved not you.
Gather close to all the hoglike about me—but that isn’t
true—E., who’ll
wrangle and master me down again, now the poplin of night drops
so often, and soon?
Yours, J
Mannequin
The world is changing so I bought a mannequin to watch it with me.
The world is changing so I beheaded the mannequin so he’d see
softer things.
I thought to steal a box cutter to open the two of us up to the change.
I left the mannequin alone for a week and returned to find
his hips had slimmed.
I told the mannequin my name when we met but he never used it
lest familiarity get the better.
The mannequin knew not to trash the roses until there was
no need to remember.
The mannequin remembered peach-smell, trunk-smell, the unkinder
smell of others.
Next to the mannequin I left a pitcher of milk whenever I left our home.
Around the mannequin I arranged a circle of spoons filled with
shallow water for the bees.
Whenever the mannequin wished to be a lark I could use him as a raft
with his hollow bones.
The mannequin insisted on taking his meals alone.
The mannequin owned half of the air in our home.
The mannequin said departure only expedites the inevitable.
The mannequin often wished to be a lark.
The mannequin knew what skin I slept in and would sometimes look,
sometimes look away.
The mannequin remained upright but didn’t exhale.
Looking into the space the mannequin’s face had been I saw traces
of static like burrs.
The mannequin shifted when the window-light sashed across his waist
and I knew he was asking who’d once loved me.
For my mannequin I stole a different mannequin who had a fist
permanently clenched.
I pulled off the wrist and dipped it in iodine I’d mixed into
the pitcher-milk.
I pinned it to his left chest to gift him a real appropriate heart.
The mannequin prefers the bathroom with the almanac to the bedroom
skewed with restless sun.
The mannequin I’d thought once whispered to suggest how to hold my
hands when my hands when I’m asking.
The mannequin’s voice sounded better drugged-shut at the sight of me
touching the bell jar or myself.
Long-fingered mannequin he injects my dream with jittery
insect content.
If the mannequin wanted he could sail past death itself.
If he wanted he could turn on the lamp himself.
The world is changing so I beheaded the mannequin so he’d see
softer things.
I thought to steal a box cutter to open the two of us up to the change.
I left the mannequin alone for a week and returned to find
his hips had slimmed.
I told the mannequin my name when we met but he never used it
lest familiarity get the better.
The mannequin knew not to trash the roses until there was
no need to remember.
The mannequin remembered peach-smell, trunk-smell, the unkinder
smell of others.
Next to the mannequin I left a pitcher of milk whenever I left our home.
Around the mannequin I arranged a circle of spoons filled with
shallow water for the bees.
Whenever the mannequin wished to be a lark I could use him as a raft
with his hollow bones.
The mannequin insisted on taking his meals alone.
The mannequin owned half of the air in our home.
The mannequin said departure only expedites the inevitable.
The mannequin often wished to be a lark.
The mannequin knew what skin I slept in and would sometimes look,
sometimes look away.
The mannequin remained upright but didn’t exhale.
Looking into the space the mannequin’s face had been I saw traces
of static like burrs.
The mannequin shifted when the window-light sashed across his waist
and I knew he was asking who’d once loved me.
For my mannequin I stole a different mannequin who had a fist
permanently clenched.
I pulled off the wrist and dipped it in iodine I’d mixed into
the pitcher-milk.
I pinned it to his left chest to gift him a real appropriate heart.
The mannequin prefers the bathroom with the almanac to the bedroom
skewed with restless sun.
The mannequin I’d thought once whispered to suggest how to hold my
hands when my hands when I’m asking.
The mannequin’s voice sounded better drugged-shut at the sight of me
touching the bell jar or myself.
Long-fingered mannequin he injects my dream with jittery
insect content.
If the mannequin wanted he could sail past death itself.
If he wanted he could turn on the lamp himself.
|
Justin Wymer is a writer, translator, and educator from West Virginia. Currently, he's working on a poetry project inspired by accounts of angels in apocryphal texts and everyday conversation. |
Nat. Brut Issue Six
Issue Six is our second in print, and features work by Cristina de Middel, Afabwaje Kurian, Chitra Ganesh, Jayson Musson, and more! Issue Six also comes with limited edition supplements: All of Them Witches, a 32-page risograph-printed comic re-interpreting 1950s Harvey Horror comics, plus volume four of our comics section, Early Edition!
