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Ripping the Pristine

We never speak—
not in any language,
not in arid plains
or within
these exposed boundaries.

We never say—
I open myself to you
(and never will).

Your oak floors
lie gleaming, empty
as the naked hills.
You refuse to come my way,
not three paces, not sideways,
not even in a dream.

What we avoid,
is contemplating space. Ripping what is pristine
into pure language and air—turning rejection
to warm blood and welcoming pulse.

Dumbstruck
below our brimming hearts,

the astonishing devastation.

BECAUSE OF THIS

Oh my pretty,
I have wrung you out like a rag –
and because of this
nothing I tell you is true.

And because of this
you have a bag over your head.
Your eyes are like chainsaws or a strangling scripture,
you scream from the back of pickup trucks,
you speak through the mouths of road-kill.

You tell me: No one will ever love you this much.

You spread your arms wide and
gears and pistons grind in your jaw,
glint of machete in your nostrils.

And because of this
I say: Just eat around my bruised parts.

But no, your love is true,

and because of this,
you unhinge your sorrowful jaws and swallow me whole.

Kelly Boyker

Bio: Kelly lives and writes in Seattle. She lives alone with two cats and a Rhodesian Ridgeback named Tiki. Her poem “Defenestration” won the Richard Hugo House Inquiry Contest. Zoe@nwnexus.com

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