Poetry, Week 52: Maya C. Thompson

 

Tocsin


we are gun range identical she swears   
she divines her daughter swiped as full proof 
the ships blast      out of the marksmen’s barrels   

& it shouldn’t be relative to any foreign port   
i am 83            a suitcase unzipped 
she becomes the flex of my dumbbells   

this armada is an intuitive herd   
obsessed with dna our multi-locus   
charge finger-spooked going deeper             digital  

raiding octopi zones          we negotiate   
the roundness of bubbles & the lids  
choking our brew some of it is guanine      

some of it is mud drop a guitar in my chest   
& the hole is a buoy             my technique to parrot   
his orders & scramble on cue midwatch   i imagine  

her placentas trailing the rudder to Italy            salt   
ruck                   waves lash unbounded 
against my hands 

 


Phenakistoscope Mis-Hire


The teenagers breadcrumb their egos 
as if the ducks blitz the locked gate. Two squeeze 
on the Palomino. They want fathers so bad they cut   

the lines begging their friends to record 
the carousel spin on a thumbtack: sick   

of the barefoot children in the latex 
house; sick of lugging these sandbags, 
sick of putting the garden snake   

in the trash can; another contestant spat 
and I keep the mirror still to gauge the torque.   

All swamp beyond the fence.
When you get tired of counting air, curve   

the pitcher’s strikes and tell him he’s a fool 
if he lets you walk.   

 

Conniption Rhetoric

Just for your context, each tangram 
in the lab is under a slavish copy   
then lined by the rows of computers  
between her rainbow stripes wrapped
around it, an arbor by lip. My triangle skin, no  
sleep this way. Pump me an elephant 
dose of propofol for this set. She twists the knurled kombucha
cap, macadamia nuts for tonight. My decisions
are the leaping apes   
on my graphs if you saw
the algorithm to get here. Energy. Cortisone  
shots. Grate this bone data into spicule:       
medieval/transduction/king.     
No summit in my confession.  

 

Maya C. Thompson is a writer from Maryland. Her poems have appeared in The Shore, The Tusculum Review, and The Scarab. Her research on Ruth Muskrat Bronson has appeared in the Recovering Democracy Archives.