Mary Kasimor

the a-rhythmical assembly line

dead bananas lay on the table
the elephants are out tonight
I cannot tell stories

animals are not known for goodness
they are not kind
while stars erase themselves
the words won’t let go

I cannot locate the story

here in a hungry room of counters
only cups of coffee for saints (they starve)

mother’s tea calming the wrinkles
out of breath on an assembly line for stitching
my stories don’t have connective tissue
misunderstanding the body
and spilled out for death
dangling in the dumpster

maps of bruises
dainty the kind animals are quick
a mercy kiss
a stick of flesh

a gallery of life consoles the unkempt
tree mouths on this tulip morning
flowers of land stories and bears
and wolves in fur calendars
the a-rhythmical sound of hearts
pushing out carrots

strings of blood

(a heart’s mania)
releasing spring blossoms and mercury
our dreams do not contradict tangled lives
besides the foods we eat are tamed
and digested through meat fingers
eating the unbalanced symphony
conducting in ditches

a period at the end of meaning
when it meant sounds
of the flesh gibberish
the burned bones of a carnival
in motion I cannot tell these stories

words won’t let me go
nor do they gather storms
of placement in coinciding patterns
or sleep deprived trees
dazed beneath fluorescent lights
when I kissed you the kiss was hungry

impermanence the irony of form
I poured over the photos
people disappeared
all the buildings are dying


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