Into Months

Once in the dark cold and water-table bliss
or blue of the fractioned and visible land
Figure this
for the tiny halves of most lives
where the country and the city and the pantry all converge

For a time the slice had misshapen
the drive
                  the way it melts in the
                         tiring sun of the day the stitches
whose low deep voice made a
just entangle of the whole rotting fruit.

Goats and the milk which comes and lies
and numbering and circle sorts.
I can't receive my petition my
hesitancy because one knows
the path
is a slimy and cheap oak clock

Spanish is the reemergent fine-time and the
tight rope slither and link
The vagrancy or relevancy but
mostly it’s the dream of mothering
I make a perfect and terrible woman
when fire's in the soaring lifesuit of the pace

and like insert of an eagle is much the way
I met the man named Americo Ferrari which
surprised me sounding so much
the space and the luxe in both parts

Rebecca Kosick writes and translates in Ithaca, NY.

More poems? Yes.

You may contact the editor at poems@theawl.com.