Amber Edmondson

 

 

What the Owl Loves

 

 

I’m trying to love you
like the owl loves
the vole’s bones.
The stuff you spit out,
that won’t dissolve
into your body,
your blood stream, the stuff
that stays separate,
that holds its shape.

I’m trying.
There’s that.

You are cleaving chips
from stone, flinting
the edges. You
are gathering water.

I’m asking how I might love you,
calcium and marrow, how
I might love you, small mammal
skittering under
leaf litter, snow pack.
I’m asking
the shed and matted fur,
hibernation den.

We will bury this some day.
Dig a hole for these bones.
Split the salmon
on these river stones;
use our teeth to pull out
what we intend
to keep. Let
the current take
the rest.

 

 

Fever Dream

 

 

Tonight, the wasps shake the screen
to thunder. I’ve stitched the seams, ‘
but the needle keeps breaking.
You keep saying, Maybe we should sleep,
let it pass, pretend our windows
can still keep out the rain.

Our laundry hangs on the fire escape.
Your hands are scoops of moonlight.
If you touched me,
my skin might frost over.

You wear your hair like those piano boys.
If you played, it might sound
like gravel falling on rusted iron,
straps of leather stroking cement.
You want the sizzle to rise from the keys.

I want a break in the heat.
What we get is broken needles,
the wonder of silver glinting
on a backdrop of blue.

Stripes of city skyline, the belly of a wasp,
her stinger reaching out to us.
Her stinger shaking the screen,
the storm driving her mad with longing.

 

 

Edmondson

 

Amber Edmondson is a poet and book artist who recently relocated to Chicago from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. So far, she’s spent a lot of time on trains. Her work has appeared in Autostraddle, Menacing Hedge, and Stirring. She also has two chapbooks forthcoming in 2016: Lost Birds of the Iron Range from Porkbelly Press and “Darling Girl” from Dancing Girl Press.

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