Two Poems
Iris Moulton

oh my

here is somewhere else to them
you are the one with the accent

a prairie! oh my

it is humid here it is not as humid here
it is almost as humid here if not more so

so then
cook the pig in the hot hot sand

oh oven bellied world
thanks for not burning us mostly

The Park
for GRM

A plane hums and loses its long white ghost. Cars hum in swells, a mother
calling from a doorframe, and then again calling. It makes a squirrel
of the heart, a chatter and chew, to think we hear that mother. Instead:
at the green pond we lean to our own green faces. The lines of us (how
white your teeth used to be and also showing and young) wave toward
until into.
You are the only ghost I see, but even you are just piles
of clothes and a streetlight through the curtains (if I pretend to want
water won’t someone please come). Sustainability. The only one
I talk to like scraping dirty dishes. Contents: bright jackets in a discotheque.
Propose in every restaurant for the free champagne. Everyone
we will lose but us: things that peel away.