Friday, November 30, 2012

NEW! Two poems by Molly Bendall

Molly Bendall

Two poems


I take to
her shoe-sized hovel and decaying forsythia. 
Let’s go for the instant snow fall,

get marooned on the stone porch.
Now too, tranquilized,

she’ll pad down the gnarled rope, tap the corners in.

Go again. Again. Lift her up
by the scruff

Pocket the thistle and vole fur,

and this one sings loose and regretful, a pollen-tinted face.
Right as doing. Wait for the drop date.

I’m near emptied
so follow the burned-out drawer

and the plastic shards in
a chain of wind. 
Pull a name into the chatter and wed it to
your fixes.

She’s got brooding duties and weaves with horsehair and cools
with her shadows.


When you’re
in too close
the mouse bones soften and settle in tight.

Come down when the tension wires undo. My glove
could smoothe
a network
but you’re part missing even as you kick up and up.

Every minute thinks
of passing sky, every milky bowl shuns a sooty back.

I’ve zeroed
in on your sumptuous reach. Lost when I remember

you most, and then you fall

asleep in the U petals.  

I’ll be one of those who talks back,
not dainty
too much.

A stone’s throw and a sob back to you,
and I’ll be one who gnaws at the capillaries

so sing your invitation now,
invite me to inspect

your starter home, place your decoy on the thin blue rim.

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