Allison Madura (Bio)
She was embryo and scalpel
all in one
this tango of two-never-becoming,
pumice stone made hip bones
powder (v.)
dusting the corners of the counter
roll out hot sugar with careful hands into this,
an interplanetary hard candy
in the flavor forgotten
like the way she feels about the scent of Geraniums,
the kindest flower.
She met him with rigidity
was so careful to tightly wrap
sobriety
in the napkin pressed between her thighs,
wished for a moment she was blind so to
braille (v.)
his body, watch her rouge with each step
between her door and his and
so much quicker with lights left on, you see
lovers are less passive than concrete, but so much better
at keeping secrets
rise to meet her, she will name you begotten,
the end of her becoming.
She began to plant the garden, his hands plate
sproutlings, divided dunes like
grave-mound hedge rows, hold your breath
out of respect for the dead
keep a scorpion in your back pocket so to
Santeria (v.)
the remainder of some boyhood desire and
don’t leave wet clothes in the bottom of the ash bag,
that’s a recipe for widows, the kind that
bit your mother, the kind you imitate in stride
one shadow-walk away from
the Monday I can’t forgive
has Matcha morning breath and syrup
thick brain-smog, like windows left
open in a hurry, the back door
unlocked in hasty
liturgy (v.)
remove the mattress and the frame,
sit up straight, maintain posture
unbroken eye contact with the dawn
call your sisters, let them
temple (v.)
all matters unholy
wash yourself, and then again
clean, but do not burn
the skin, save that sting for sunshine kisses
there is still touch you deserve
forgiveness is not always the best option
so when she meditates to remember,
sometimes kindness needs a quiet place
to grow
even if it’s not for him, feed yourself
from finger tilled gardens,
labor can be fruit itself, become a
tangerine, for no reason other than the color,
poultice (v.)
bug bites with ambrosia
buy new sheets and all the apricots
from every store in town.