Jul/Aug 2009 Poetry


by Jami Macarty


All I really want
is to sit on a foreign beach
tucked up to myself
knees to chin
a small
blue ball staring
in a way that means nothing.

I am a vacuum of sorrow
and suddenness.

We cannot help what happens
to us in the night.
One day
you are fine with the lazy
scarf of your body
as it drapes the end
of your bed.

The next you cover your knees
spend the day under a quilt.

The eating is inside me
a virus, I tell the phone.
It shinnies the rope of my intestines.

As I sleep I worry
every circuit of rosary
hanging from the rear view
mirrors in South Tucson.

I am unsafe on linoleum.
The ants
bead trails to the spice cabinet.
The eating is inside.
I allow
my body onto the stoop of melon rinds.


In the desert the waves
thorough, immediate
the heat in degrees.


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