LOOKING OUT, WONDERING
How often the birds How often the laughing
angels forcing us inside How often the thanking
god for the water in the bottle on the shelf at Costco
and the morning crying outside into tomorrow
morning The breakfast yes and-ing projecting us
into our own laps How often the shopping for a new
self in the aisles of Target, Whole Foods
The kisses exploding back into our mouths our hands
holding nothing holding melted threats
The comma scooping white space into its palm
and the new self emerging and the pausing
of time on the subway which has windows for a reason
angels forcing us inside How often the thanking
god for the water in the bottle on the shelf at Costco
and the morning crying outside into tomorrow
morning The breakfast yes and-ing projecting us
into our own laps How often the shopping for a new
self in the aisles of Target, Whole Foods
The kisses exploding back into our mouths our hands
holding nothing holding melted threats
The comma scooping white space into its palm
and the new self emerging and the pausing
of time on the subway which has windows for a reason
WHEN WE ARE LOVINGLY GIVING
and we are indifferent sometimes and yes and the cuticles occasionally
bitten to softness over another tax statement and the search bar indicating
some pretty rage within or our knotted fists making houses
in the gorgeous neighborhood of our bodies our attitudes fucking
us sideways and backwards and our forgetting why
bitten to softness over another tax statement and the search bar indicating
some pretty rage within or our knotted fists making houses
in the gorgeous neighborhood of our bodies our attitudes fucking
us sideways and backwards and our forgetting why
THE MOUNTAIN IN THE HOUSE
That small moon that tries knowing doesn’t mention
how the kid might find the other moon farther away.
I think about ice. Directions. Lighting the field ‘til prom
makeovers everyone. The simple matchbook burns
terribly in reverse. Touching someone for days: that’s
the stuff. Borrowing the pretty mouth; mouth that
leads my abdomen to the door. A small peach was
thrown, then another.
how the kid might find the other moon farther away.
I think about ice. Directions. Lighting the field ‘til prom
makeovers everyone. The simple matchbook burns
terribly in reverse. Touching someone for days: that’s
the stuff. Borrowing the pretty mouth; mouth that
leads my abdomen to the door. A small peach was
thrown, then another.
✱✱✱
 Alexandra Cuzzo is a student and writer living in Chicago. She works at a sex shop and always misses her parents. Follow her on Twittter @alexcuzzo |
