Poetry by k Russell
the smell of new sweat subsumes old funks
Hamachi kama is the fleshy part of the jaw
where in humans language lays cushioned
if you probe your navel hard enough
it aches in dark corners of your uterus
maybe it’s a call button or a reminder
from whence you came
from the primordial soup, the pelvic bowl
it is a deep and unique sensation
like when you dig your finger nail
under your pinky toe nail and it squeezes
a nerve in your ribs
we all want to do the right thing,
write your name in the sky.
pretend the drop of blood on the floor is ink.
kids are reading bin laden’s letter,
babies are dying unattended
amidst what might’ve once looked like a hospital
scott’s hair parts halfway into his scalp. a seam.
the robot voiced man lures me home and buys me a
blue raspberry bootlegger
sometimes you can’t help yourself
i put on his polo and look like a clown
i like your body he said like a protagonist
i like the way you move he said like a teenage boy
i stroke the fin of the crushed car door because
she’s at rehearsal and it’s the closest her-shaped thing
i can find. that is a true story.
