by Maia Sauer
Year of the Horse
I want to jump in the washing machine
rock at the speed of a Boeing 777
drop angel number fertilizer
everywhere
piles of cornflake dust
or cotton patience
snow
dense as dark meat
linebacker benediction wide
so I become a collection plate
with or without you
I am always one swallow away
I stare into the drum
scummed up in collision
stupid mutualism
I went to the woods
but between trees there was no truth
Power Lines
I twist along the wire and deny
my own likeness loosely held
like a cold cut flapping in the wind.
I palm the air for what
willows remember.
Network hounds gnaw bone
deep holes until I mistake
the vacuum rush of exposed nerve
for optimal flow.
Stay waxen and ready as spit.
A lake is far away
even when I am in it.
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Maia Sauer is a Brooklyn-based writer and artist. Her poetry and essays appear in The Brooklyn Rail, Strange Hymnal, and elsewhere. She's an editor at Lullaby Machine, a magazine and digital lullaby library. // maiasauer.com