Oh

after Ciara

 Oh

listening

up

Oh—

Queen of,

It gets,

Oh,

the video against,

was before

Oh,

all my Oh, singing?

Oh is between

saying and singing,

more rhetoric 

than sex,

Ludicrous

Oh, Oh (delight),

am I eating?

Oh, flying,

over and

across Oh,

the land quite morose

already,

the sun already,

Oh

 

Freak Weather

It was April. It was May.

The next day was warmer.

Wildflowers colonized the woods,

divided into parts

by logging roads.

Goldthread lay hidden in a moist thicket

as the point of destruction 

in the book of Luke

when the angel Gabriel announces

the birth of Christ,

a passage I had read theatrically

from the walnut pulpit

of the First Presbyterian church

one Christmas Eve

in a poodle skirt

and torn-up cardigan,

my skin painted witch green

and a spider web drawn

in liquid black eye-liner

on the round of my shoulder.

 

A field out past the thicket

turned me into a gymnast,

one foot planted in the wild grass,

the other pointed toward the sky.

I held my pose

with the patient determination

of a sundial

until Grandma called me home

for a dinner of chicken dumplings.

Squirrels—vermin! I belted—,

the daisies,

all that went undisclosed

enlivened the dirt path back

where the wary red fox

napped after his meal.

 

It’s almost evening in my little landscape.

The letters we expected

have not yet arrived.

Up, then down, then after another warm day

up again, the river’s waters

dislodged an original boulder,

sending it downstream with the cabin shutter

and the pine tree struck by lightning,

down through the banks shaped by history

to where the Hudson River

tumbles over the paper mill’s dam

and factory smoke rises into clouds

drifting at different heights over their shadows.

 

                                 “Meow Meow

Meow

Meow."

-Stiff Kitten

 

Ghosts

They come around as punks to the icy foyer

where names are not the horizon of being

and run (Wonderful!)

and run (Say it!)

and run (Run! Run!)

the slick black street so real

it is

a history, calendaresque landscape,

mountains draped over shoulderpads,

the broach of a finch piercing the limb,

a lapel: say it!

The limb (the lapel!)

Say it, say it:

artifice enlivens me;

I also wanted life.

What I love is the trees wet with day—

I die before them.

And the gold, golden lair,

a collective, peremptory identity.

Could you be action (Ghosts!)

Could you be more than we know (Ghosts!) They come around as

waves, they are waves, 

coursing through a virtual rocking chair

if life is a house.

Once the revolutions were nothing but themselves.

                                             

                                              You eagerly give away my likes

to the pink dash of the roseate spoonbill,

 

a sign of desire

in what they taught us was the only sky.

 

E. Parker Phillips is a writer and educator focusing on creativity, gender & sexuality, and kink. Parker's work has appeared in Sliver of Stone, Jai-Alai magazine and Hinchas de Poesia and is forthcoming from Voluble. Parker has performed at the Miami Book Fair as well as BFI's Weird Miami BusTour. She/they make a living as a BDSM service provider currently based in Miami.