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The Witch Game
I could loop into my backyard:
domain of polo shirts, weedy sandbox,
cat shit in the sandbox.
Katherine on the swings—
arguing about stars
chewing tobacco
girls we might kiss.
My hands in the air
make a book of the air
moved through there,
caught in the live oak.
My mother tries to teach us kick the can.
I teach my brother the witch game:
dip your leg down to the land
and you become a witch.
Find a scissors buried,
rusted shut.
The Knight of Cups
The sun is full of heat and still.
The light inside turns grey,
I am told to take the hyacinths
out of the poem.
Fine. Your talking is like water.
And something beautiful around, I never mentioned,
the names of ships: The Mars
The Constellation.
Perseus, he went young to sea
motivated by the love of women,
a glimpse of the sea. I move
my hands when talking of love,
wear an armour of fish scales.
You write the treatise.
The Renaissance
Shaded lemons in a bowl.
The ideal heads stare up to ecstasy.
The perpendicular breasts:
a white wave.
Men with spherical boobs,
the countless virgins are
bored with proportions.
Il Tramonto, the landscape blues under sunset.
Here is an Allegory of Love:
Close eyes
concentrate on moustache.
Heart asleep but loud
she clutches her breasts inside the painting.
Like Genevieve of Paris, La Fortuna,
she goes down among the blossoms. |
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Elisa McCool is pursuing an MFA in poetry at the University of Michigan-Ann Arbor. She edits the journal Come Hither, which has featured the work of Eileen Myles, Tom Devaney, Jennifer K Dick, Alice Notley, John Beer, Hoa Nguyen, and Dale Smith among others. Her work has appeared in Skanky Possum as well as in broadside format for the Parvati Press Cross-Quarter reading series. While she was an undergrad in Iowa, she volunteered to teach a poetry workshop in a men's prison. Currently she is a Writer-in-Residence at Burns Elementary in Detroit with the organization InsideOut.
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