Sunday, July 11, 2010

Julie Carr


The kettle boils, boils now.

Maligned and languishing in an upstairs room: a lacrimal dimple

trips the obscene.

Honk geese: soprano duck, duck

hobbles, belly first, a girl-falcon spins,

rebuffs the rough draft.

Too long, my husband’s sweater

sleeve. My patience no: threads of what

warms a baby's unrivalled calamitous

hour. Full sob

transpires to rust the pendulous rug,

long in the arms, short in time.

Without hours, how cheer? Old devotions

now point to

sorrow: cap’s cracked and leaking.

Door doesn’t open: exit through mirror.


the plumbing



Euphonic rubber spin,

whose driving you where? Wherefore

drink in the warm air pressed from

the dash dash dash of

my figurative folk-form. My hap-

hazard phrase is cued, lit, and moving

down the avenue, the avenue



For not wanting to dose oneself in the mother

you will receive a forty-dollar fine.

Rising out of feet, and flowering, as a plumb tree flowers:

an aromatic man.

Emails from travelers, from soon-to-be friends, whose spelling is terrible

and what does that portend?

The matted hair of a doll: almost flowing, is.

Breathe in. And I am not going anywhere, studied by God.

Bleary from living under sun, my condition is excellent for pleasure.

The “brain people” say the murderer cannot be jailed

because he is only eleven. The “morality people” say he cannot be judged

because he is only eleven.

But the “law people” are going to take his life away. Bracken

in the mind suspended above the floor knows of wheat fields and

branches horizontally lusting. And an exquisite flower just today

opens. How best to

empty it?

Julie Carr is the author of four books of poetry, most recently, 100 Notes on Violence from Ahsahta Press and Sarah-Of Fragments and Lines, due out from Coffee House in September. She is the co-publisher, with Tim Roberts, of Counterpath Press, and teaches in the MFA program at the University of Colorado at Boulder.