from That Which Comes AfterSideways angled sun I rode my bike through you seven times Wilderness rings funny to this tongue You said you could feel where I ended There were a lot of apples in the bag Nothing felt ripe anymore Kept putting my hands on fruit I can't feel anything you'd say Lots of rain on a Sunday Paper bag chrysanthemum on the tracks Fantastic suitcase Whatever you left with stays gone from That Which Comes AfterI've lived half awake before Car clipped my kneecap Knit hat pulls over Cupping my ears to block Traffic ceaseless Luncheon for administrative Assistants call myself Secretary I like the Self-deprecation I wear Crowning heads every Existence stilled My years as endless News feed only the Fiction matters Always thought I'd be Lead singer instead Acting out my glories Stage my rebirth All grown up The distance between Hatch an egg Sit on your face Reason the names For paint I can't come Back to you anymore Stop kissing my cheeks Your mouth has said What I fear most Death is a vital Ingredient in my hips The bones you've licked While I shook Cocktails to ice Blacked out a name Blacked out another That's not resistance But moving over On the bus Cable repairman Bicycle helmet Line about birds Put the grass back In my mouth Let me see Alexis Pope is the author of Soft Threat (Coconut Books, 2014), as well as three chapbooks. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review, Denver Quarterly, Poor Claudia :: Phenome, and The Volta, among others. She lives in Brooklyn. |