From The Goodbyes
When tracking the sleep
pattern of our measuring
cup’s civilization, it
is how much I miss
you that drowns
my speaker’s speech:
“My name is Ozymandias”
which most scholars
agree is partly true,
The art of the body
keeps the dead amongst
us living, the form of
a person moving definition
with it. X was my neighbor
&/or someone’s sister
Aunt Mamie-I called it an
“old fashioned way
to say “it was.”
But no one teaches
how to be worth warrior
bother knowing full bloom
that even in archetype
the blood’s course
depends on voice from pole
to pole, as we move first
as a wild thing, then
as a poppy, finishing
life as center of
the dining room
table bouquet.
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From The Goodbyes
In this opportunity to answer, to
make excuses for my bad writing,
the poor quality of the ink, pen, &
paper, my inability to
express myself, etc.
Or else to thank you, my correspondent,
but I am sorry for the time it took to answer.
Or else It’s Horseneck Beach,
looking good at it too.
At least you had the opportunity to be a lover,
whose fixed on a starting point beyond their reach.
Clasp my hands, George wrote
&/or unable to stay a wasteland
made a wasteland of it.
O in prairie grass,
by ballad hides or
where I must’ve been a lady,
on 1930 mainstreet
or in gold prices & other minerals—
just this time with snow & rain,
fortune is more
like the view over the shoulder of a victor.
Moving one along with their mirror
together, snapping whatever needs to be
back into form.
& so the version in which you stick to your man
acts of shrewd showmanship,
in being loved
& then being loved not,
loved on a flyer, but second glance in town.
I could be New England & you my New York,
or both of us appleseed.
Be a noun dressed up for a night on the town, or
home w/no makeup on,
or you or X, X who stole my umbrella.
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Emily Sieu Liebowitz is the author of National Park (Gramma Poetry, 2018), and the chapbook In Any Map (The Song Cave, 2015).