Three Poems
Thin Wire
I pull your face
from spools of thin wire
to see how age would
have shaped you.
All I need is a long breath
and fingers to work that wire.
I form your yellow face
and tortoise shell frames,
the cowlick in
the front centre
of your hairline.
I push down the full cheeks,
crease the damp forehead.
This, your face--
something to stake
in the ground and
have tomatoes grow up
or a frame for a
Robin's blind eggs.
Ritchie Highway, Brooklyn Park
Two foxes on the side
of the off ramp
like burned off tire tread
like old dress shoes.
I hold my breath between
second and third rib,
their tails in the rearview
their feral faces
and white red mouths.
Bone fire
"In the worship of St. John, the people . . . made three manner of fires; one was of clean bones and no wood, and that is called a bonefire--another of clean wood and no bones, called a wood-fire--the third is made of wood and bones and is called 'St. John's fire'." - Old Irish Archives
Kick sand on the bone fire.
Kick down and bury it.
Her ribs are red glass
My flathead shovel gnashes
to turn over
the clean bones
flamed out.
Watch from St. John's window,
Mother, watch with your brash
hang-nail smile,
your cigarette lip.
Go on, hang me
from my eyelashes
by vibrations of cicada
wings
and stained light.
We amount to so much potash,
teeth, hair, eye grit
no clean blaze
in the streets
will open me.
We slept under the holly,
Mother, I said submit
and she unlocked her knees.
Her ribs are red glass
kick sand on the bone
fire's ash
Kate Wyer's chapbook, From Spools Of Thin Wire, was released by Publishing Genius in October 2008. She has fiction forthcoming in ML Press and Dogzplot. Goucher college presented her with the Elizabeth Woodworth Reese grant upon graduation. She will graduate in May 2009 from The University of Baltimore with an MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts. She makes linoleum cut prints of nautilus and zucchini flowers. She works in the public mental health field and loves her job.