Last knowledge of dusty cloud inverted yes to an automatic no. It was the weather; a drag, a beanpole, things left clean hid in the shade and in between the ledges we bent back our brains. We tried to relief anger, tired to pledge home, worries of losing set principals, following no guidelines, and husky in the flack of yielding nada, for a moment to bend the image out, and contort into the shape of a yes, I'll drive you home, yes, I'll pick you up, yes, I'll carry you over the harbor with my trapeze heart and sickly nomenclature. I feel so ill to tie up the past. The ends are little frayed strings and winding through the course of life they become gruesomely familiar. Fill me with hostile plentitudes. Particularly sharp licks of the tongue, scratching, bruising and bashing but weary for the ledges to stand. I will the wall closer to home and pull the outside shape around me, punishment, for building stable shapes can also will collapse into existence. I am the broken lip of your nose, the fractured bone in your arm, that splint for straightening out the crooked aftermath of haymakers and prosthetic teeth. Your dent of head is shiny with purple lashes. You tossed infrastructure in the way and water has always been more powerful than any human.
Paige Taggart is a poet and jeweler living in Brooklyn. She's the author of two collections, Or Replica (Dec.2014, Brooklyn Arts Press) and Want for Lion (Mar. 2014, Trembling Pillow Press.) Check out her website: mactaggartjewelry.com
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan