MARCH
by Sallie Fullerton
The conceit of the day
is to exhaust myself, so I walk.
The angel of hope appears
to be melting it is surely
the style but why is she missing
a foot? Like me she is itching
to trespass. We are locked tight
to schedules defined by no single thing.
I pull her from her pedestal (a feat,
my muscles have gone rubber now)
and place her under my arm.
Pieces of earth and flecks
of concrete fall from her stump,
a pipeline breaks at her base,
shoots muddy water to heaven.
We walk together pace
sunspots and eye library dollhouses break
into an expensive deck overhanging thick wood.
We close our eyes to meditate
and laugh – peek sideways
crack nuts in our teeth and spit
casings in between deck slats.
We walk magnificent leaving this and that,
a trail of crap behind us.
No one is out and the air smells like
detergent – hopelessly clean.
She’s much too heavy to bring home,
my angel, I lay her flat, arms throbbing, homebound.
ICE FISHING
We walked out though the ice did not appear to hold – it pooled and sunk, visible cracks
sectioning its surface deep. We drilled a hole put our back into it.
We drilled a series of holes we made floodlights of the open-air – controlled beams.
We sunk ourselves into our holes we moved along real old school
The ice appeared to hold so we tested it.
We jumped giddy we made cracks strong-kneed wanting to meet its parts;
first shards, blood-wanting, then chips, sore-letting. It held.
Seeing nothing below we made our own equipment
arranging all below the surface in diorama:
carrion sharp, shell sharp, saw sharp, teeth sharp.
A stack, a line, a display, a rust chain.
We felt our stomachs suddenly tender. We felt our bowels twitch and hypertense. We felt
the edges of the ice, its shards and its objects. We tongued it. We made holes in our bellies.
We let light in. Let teeth in, shell in, carrion. Saw ourselves pink and ripping.
All things meant to puncture us.
OCTOBER
Like a queen, I wrap myself in garments and never touch the floor.
The earth hardens, and like a queen,
I claim months as my own.
I tie October to a bed and watch it rattle.
Watch it sneak calls and will itself branch-naked.
I swirl my month in my mouth.
I consider its taste and potency. Sneak it under the seat
and, queen-like, deny its existence.
October is in the cellar thinking about what it’s done.
I am in a mood for celebration.
About the Poet: Sallie Fullerton is a current MFA candidate in Poetry at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Their poems have been published in several online publications, including Frontier Poetry, Vagabond City Lit, and Slanted House Collective.