AB GORHAM
TWO YELLOW LINES TO DRIVE
on one side
What is thiskites?
smells/tastes like something I
can’t remember
the name for
extortiona little kid
running a small-time garden show
hoards the shovels
grabs a stick to threaten
the younger child
wind hot as a sidewalk
evidence of suffering
the younger child
sneaks next door to scratch
hate into a car’s paint
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*** ** ***
PURE GREEN SCREEN FRONT LAWN
a glowering face from the neighbor’s window
rush of legs deposits the mud
& I’m not careful the wrinkled
knuckle of soil
on house’s far side where nothing grows
and not a retort
no meaningful things to say
except a glassine stare to the NW
where they regulate temperatures
like a sunsetthe days
are rally-biting one another leave
cuppy marks and mindless comments here, stay
inside, cars hop the curb on the boulevard
to drive aroundalmost hit
a child –imagine
the hospital bill for your injured child
retire all the old white men
into the groundas an experiment
let’s see how it feels likely
like rice cooked
to the bottom of the pan –
form a ball and chuck
it at the neighbor
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*** ** ***
HAIR & NOT PULP
Hair & not pulp makes the sheet dynamic, stretched surface
linty & spreads no rattle softer
offers material forgiveness & pilled regret after a friction
& lastly the resolve to slip between two planes.This
is another place to fill in with clay powders
dull the topographya hand glows through
the other side
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*** ** ***
CROSS SECTION OF AN EMOTION
In this backpack
bonefolders, pens, a pantyliner
in careful cursive
the latch on the cellar
door rusted to dust cream
clouds in a yellow sky
melt fresh as a wet stone
mix six small red balls
a gold frame
flattens the playing field
makesof it
the words in
recognizable order
you lied trying
I’m dehydrated feeling
of not being
more this more legibly
I’d have to sit up
stone wrapped
in abaca
fiber of spill
as ice scattered
on hot parking lot asphalt
small piece of mica
worked beneath my
fingernail
try lying down
while reading this
or try to let
go of being good
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*** ** ***
BAWDY OBJECT
a sharp greendagger breath gustinghouseplants thrum
all the ways to respondthe futurewithout you
dogwood shedoak thistlephony whistle
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*** ** ***
MOIRÉ
anything on ice except
intuition steady as a flight
attendantsecret tent camps
that only pilots spot
hot air balloons float into the desert
I feel lucky in between vanishing
grays and some stupid lavender
they got caught up
you’ve slapped my ass
with your soft hand
too much you can’t place them
inside of you the balloons
bring terrible color
to the blue between
atmosphere, wavering
our burdens hover independently
mellow, never move forward
laughing on the street
this is
not aboutspeed but
about process
high desert, no, prairie
soft but impenetrable
what to do with this stain
bare poplars screen the sunrise
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AB GORHAM
AB Gorham is Assistant Professor of Book Arts at University of Nebraska Omaha. She runs Octopus Books with Danilo Thomas and the S Apostrophe S Artist Book Reading Series with Aaron Cohick. Her poems have been published in Puerto Del Sol, The Call Center, American Letters and Commentary, DIAGRAM, and Gulf Coast, among others. Her artist books are collected nationally.
To download a printable PDF version of this page, click here.
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A Dozen Nothing 