Some Do

By MATT SALYER

Check me on fleek like the night
kitchen mothers, pucker and hum some; come,
I like to liquor louche; let’s watch the flock
of spring-heeled bound as borough cabs
exhaust their carbon phantoms like a gauche
of fuck. Do you unzoo, unrouge
to rat as white, what roughshod? Do.
I want the carnal as straight metacognition,
our sexes matted like the primitive hardwire
of teleological automata,
arguing my provenance against
the famous world of time; priming
the nether, I knee-jerk the genuflections
of penetration, a justified machine. Grind
the gear-work, make you wonder whether,
want. I could watch you till the kingdom comes.

MATT SALYER is a Pushcart-nominated writer and assistant professor at West Point. His work has appeared in Massachusetts Review, Poetry Northwest, Narrative, The Common, Beloit Poetry Journal, New Orleans Review, Hunger Mountain, and other publications. He was a semifinalist for the Brittingham and Pollak Prizes in Poetry in 2016, and a finalist for The Iowa Review Award in 2016 and 2017. His first poetry collection, Ravage and Snare, is forthcoming in late 2017 from Pen and Anvil Press. A cultural history of the British Empire, As We Was Kings, is on contract for 2018 publication.

 

[Purchase Issue 14 here.]

Some Do

Related Posts

Image of book cover

Kazakhstani Poet Aigerim Tazhi in Translation

Aigerim Tazhi
A shaggy cactus in the window / catches on the drape. A stinging / spine in the hand. Along the wall. / Don't step into a moonbeam, / Don't tread on a house-elf / Or any other living thing. / In the newborn darkness / Pushing away dreams and shadows, / Sit on a sofa, keep still...

Graffitied diamond

A List of His Flaws

PETER MISHLER
Single-headed. / Flowering inwardly. / Barely felt in the birth canal... / Cupped like a handful of sea uncertainly held. / Carried fire to the human encampment. / Herod in boyhood. / An herbicide. / Given name known to the weapons inspectors. / Anchorite.

Cover of John Freeman's "The Park," a black and white photo of park benches and trees

April 2020 Poetry Feature: Poems from John Freeman’s THE PARK

JOHN FREEMAN
Every Sunday belfry bats of dread / flapped in the day’s corners— / I raised my head at 25, at 30, then 35, / as the sun arced down, always / wretched by the coming dark. / I assumed it was the awakening / singular to humans: / one day, that day would be the last.