Issue
#2

March
2009
 

 

2 poems by Katie Moore

 

The Longing Chair, a Transobjectual Poem

I didn't ask
to be made this way,
Scarlet legs sturdy,
rooted where placed
and re- placed.
No wobbles under
the fattest ass.
I tried
to just fit in,
waiting to offer you
my support. While
inside, I was never
happy.
Well
made, but made
wrong.
I should have
been born
a bird.

© Katie Moore


 
Experience Junkie

I have to put everything
In my mouth,
Or press my ear
Against it, sniff it
Like a little animal,
Rub it with my
Face.
I have to put
My tongue on it
To understand
The taste of glass,
Suck wood, nibble
pansy petals.

Purple
is disappointingly
bitter, and glass
tastes like fingerprints,
feels like
fake ice, both flatness
and tongue
pricking points.
Wood is woody and
dirt is dirty
and yellow
does taste like
the sun.

I know better, now
than to eat wild
mushrooms, bright red
berries, and every
girl I meet,
but still there's
sight touch smell.
Mushrooms feel
mucky, bad berries
look bloody,
and dirty girls
wear too much
perfume.

I can tell you a bee
from a wasp
by the sound of the buzz
as it lands on your
shoulder to sting,
or pick out a whisper
in a crowd of
loud talkers, spot a
good lie in the twitch
pitch of your voice
from a mile without
knowing you well.

I'm obsessively
sensory, terribly
touchy, feeling.
everyone, everywhere,
everything.
I'll look and listen,
sniff lick pet snuggle
tease nibble touch
tickle, and taste.
Bad with boundaries,
orally fixated,
I've never known
how to behave.
Plays poorly
with others,
this girl, she bites
and can't keep
her hands to herself.

© Katie Moore


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