Latter-Day Acrostics, by Lauren Rile Smith

WHAT'S LEFT WHEN

Spoken as if you had the nerve for something, woke up &
Moved to the window first to shut it. Slipping frward
Under doorsteps. Step me a shrine, a wail, a wait.
Digging in earth. I'll steal yr babies; I'm trees & shock of air; the
Gleaming leaves & exposed roots. My bottle's full when yrs is
Empty. I'm sliding backwards. My name is mud.

UNTITLED POEM: TWO WORDS

I.

Stripping away yr skin I am
Touching the soft parts exposed to air. I'm not
Interested in the pattern of questions, the sad weight
Notched against my back. Not considering an ending. Not
Getting away with this yet.

II.

Stay with this. Trail a finger down
The long curve of a spine, a shoulderblade.
Ringing it loose. Tucking away. Romancing the breath
In the space between the legs of the clock. One last second,
Nettles tangling out of, sweep it away.
Gobbling at you like some goddamned bird.

WE WERE ONLY TALKING AND THEN:

Sneaking into yr building late at night. May I crack open the locks, wedge a
note
Under yr door? The matter closes. You wouldn't blink an eye,
Reach out an arm, or say the word. My watery whirlpool star:
Visible at night only from great distance. Some telegram, or glyph, or
graph.
Empty the cartons & contain the mold. The black and broken-bottled
Ink spreads stains across the piles of clean laundry. Folded, fixed,
forlorn. Let me
Leave & not be solid, questioned, sold into a merry best estate. Ring
promise.
Labeled with a past, a future guess. & not the picture dissolving slowly
under yr tongue--
& not the silent breath of wind-- We're loose upon it. Body spread to air,
my eyes
Not shut, my limbs entangled. Lay back. There is no distance. No
Control. Considering the question. Fought. Or stage directions: You're
Entering the hallway, the water dripping from yr umbrella & ruining my rug.

HUNGER II

for X. and A. E. B.

Here there is no breath, there is no space, you are suspended
Under the weight of skin and dirt and smoke. Cold stones
Near your throat; far off a heat somewhere.
Growing slower, you are sharpening, until it
Eats at you. A small thing, tasting
Rich and empty, bloody air.

UNTITLED POEM [SHIVER. THROUGH THE RAILING]

Shiver. Through the railing, in my pocket, candy puff and pull of air.
Lie awake and unconsidered. Where the cursor's blinking, not
I; nor you; nor another object. The dots & dashes.
Doubling over at the waist. Sweet season, some lie. I say it's
Every mother's son, every bathroom tile, knock back, sigh.

Lauren Rile Smith writes poetry and fiction, and lives in Philadelphia. She
is an Editorial Assistant at the American Poetry Review and an Assistant
Editor at CrossConnect. Her work has appeared in publications including
Ixnay, The Vocabula Review, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and is forthcoming in
Skanky Possum.