Four Poems
Stacie Leatherman


The need for story.
Anyone within range concussive,
presence of body the oracular,
the disappearing.
Waiting for the next tension.
If you're here in the recount, breathe.
If you make it through the wind tunnels,
windows jagged open. . .


The bodies are indeed embedded.
I flip towards you, a car out of control.


The need for new violences?
The body showing its heat like a mirage.
The horror of the small and unguarded places.
The smooth skinned whale of fact.
The ship lists left then right.
By now the world is realigned.
You cannot go back to touch us, the dead,
you can only find us in approximations,
nothing like the heft of your hand, now, upon your cheek,
your body in its long bed of light.


There is nothing that can't be ground in, they say.
Morning glory of trash truck screeching by,
transfer station, incinerator or landfill,
seagulls screaming.
Hand made missions.
I have lots of tinkering to do.
Always transitions, the leachate,
lies bloated in the streets.
The irony is hard, hand grated.
Not the making but the turning out.
Did I arrange my shoulders in an appropriate posture of delay?
The separation of life from life.
The bowing of head and tail.
We still churning on the hooks.


No wonderments left except in your extended hand?
It is enough.
A burning connect,
reconfiguration of the letter.
About the odds of resilience.
The way the home is built from remnants,
winter's maiden grass,
for hatchlings expert in hunger.
We will be reborn as particles or some other consequence.
I do believe in the assassinations of belief.
Nesting in the blizzard places.
Three heartbeats now, one nested into the other.
We stretch into separate sleeps.
The love of the potential,
there's no mouth against such circumstances.
You're powerless before the efficacy, such fragile flight,
words broken up over the ocean.
Move over. The entities that abrupt you cannot be reconciled.
But the nesting continues, head within head, heart within heart.
Grief like forgiveness.
The mission twist,
foot cramp making you hop in agony, your heart upon wakening,
show me what is within,
the incubation.
Nests within nests,
trap doors
each a burst of feathers and flight --


We could speak over a delicate meal of excuses.
Everything I can use up, against deadlines.
I swear this will be the last time I remind you.
The judicious blend and the outcomes sizzling.
The paparazzi haven't a clue.
Try to say something intimate.
Punitive damages. Penmanship. Figure out fruition.
Unrig the offerings.
The buoyancy of lies.
Of misunderstandings, how they direct traffic, signal dead zones.
The trash talk I associate with you.
Of the never say never again.
Penultimate is like that.
The mouth of the wild,
beauty the stoutness of its intent.
The trust one gives when attempting entrance and exit.
The mind misspeaking is honest.
I can hold the pose of your approval.
Touch the inconsequential,
fumigate, arrange for the well to do,
pet the skulls of suffering,
arithmetic the fall --


The sorrow felt beyond borders.
Attending is the detail.
Bedside manner critical.
The undermining.
Seal the details like wax
they will melt and pour into another form
no more perfect than the other.


The shape of reliance, the interrogation.
The opulence, the quick kiss.
The furthermost point of undressed.
The pelt of outrunning.
The arrangement grossly precarious.
There isn't a way you aren't affected.
To gather like propaganda.
My artillery of grain,
inheritance, infiltration.
Let's not fault the arrangement, the dottings.
There isn't a commendation we haven't heard before,
flesh snagged in teeth.
I serve you wishes on a stick that I dissolve upon offering.
Hope a bludgeon.
Heart a pistol gleaming,
enervated through indignation, patrols.
There, in your kiss, a greater anxiety.
You scrape out your domain;
I mean for this to be a banner year.