Two Poems

by Kristi Maxwell








Whose Disposition




will you deposit yourself in

for fruitful—you carry your cloak like a dead child

no mouth will navigate teeth to harbor.

We’re forced into grave positions the way animals barned

during wind’s high-pitched whine that wins the ground’s kitty

of tree and tree-whittled houses.

How can I reconcile the asylum you treasure in your mouth

for its crazy indictments—that you said that. You disembowel

my vowel-constructed vow. Here kisses what you point to

to imposter here. Thus the appeal of gloves

you pimped off other hands. A boat toward an orgy of waves

outranks anchor, so we are far from the field

green detects and takes. Marked card of a field.

We’ll catch nothing this way.








Sarcophagus : In the cul-de-sac




he curls up

a flesh drop of dew when viewed

from high enough—

the wind yanks the sky out

of place like a word stressed

a syllable too soon so

marooned far from the island of

his understanding, though debris from my boat

floats by. There he is

waving like a capital letter—my arms loosen

from my body like string and bring my hello out

as highlights are said to eyes

if hair is dark enough

for an iris to interpret as sea

exempting of course night’s involvement

where shadows are lonely for the home

light makes. His tongue reaches in my mouth like California

and we argue shoreline

while sand breeds jellyfish

in tear-ducts he tunnels clean.