K.M. ENGLISH.November 2016


Photo by Jeff Sirkin



Closing doors thumb in the keyhole

lock all windows. Float the porch

and watch there goes down the street,

front door a mouth agape. Tuck the chin

be a ball under its tongue. Some choices:

basement, closet (never the bathtub that altar)

get the blankets and drapery. Go on.

Table linen over the toes. Settle down

and pull the canopy of trees blessed canopy

blessed shade, waxy green stuff in the mouth

shut behind them. Nostrils plugged with dirt

and worms a perfect fit: now pack it down

under fingernails. Here’s where

you can really get creative—socks, vibrators,

pens and pencils, the produce will spoil

eventually, check the junk box in the hall.

Something will work. Twine for the legs, tighter,

thicker is better, cupped flesh stretched over the

ears squeeze finger to finger. With a fat needle

and wool seal the canal, ice the eyelids

invitation liquid in the throat.


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*** ** ***


More signs of anything, sign

some choice…leaf…

attendant to endless small things: release

the coming of

world what given becomes

an expression of dark pushing dark, moon-

framed. At the center such

ordinary motion, amassed

heaps looking to turn. Do not mistake this…recollection

leaves shaking, what else

there is color in a mind and there is time

now hear them

stirring and farther

black to plum purple…a mandate by future

light by dark

open inside—come

air, swiftly containing. Dream long as glassed limbs dream

long as mercy

that is without

reflection, flush…flush, the frame of what is naked in

this rest we know so well.


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*** ** ***


When I say dead I mean universe

or bridge, one day driving the highway

dirt-streaked and ragged a man

heaving a large tire over the safety rail

he braced it with his body and

presumably it fell

down into the river. I was going fast,

it would have been unsafe to look

back and we all know what

turns into sea.


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*** ** ***



the shells fall in


sky in exile


as a seen we used

disabling light


the same word


a painted boy



what the beast says aloud

lighting the light up


(but to the sky)

of the beast universe

and the universe stops standing in for

the movement

the long strokes


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*** ** ***


Ours of everything signals / a shadow to what was

available / this unconsumable sense / of still


*           *          *


when their sky opened red

when our sky opened red

when my sky open red


*           *          *


(as winter I was born by knife)

(also these particular hours before your birth)

It is simple feeling, shelled

I ought here say

(this thought in the hours before your birth)

winter /

white involute sky


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*** ** ***







Into sea their ocean

eyes        that we




lying in the dark back        (was like blood)

as mapped

a conclusion

of hands

or expression        (this free light)

(when i) close


now (i)          don’t want anything


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K.M. English
lives with her family in Sacramento, CA. She has worked in restaurants, gardens, academia, and New Orleans public schools. You can find recent poems in cream city review, Sycamore Review, Matter, Berkeley Poetry Review, and other places. She just completed her first poetry collection, WAVE SAYS.


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November 2016.K.M. ENGLISH

A dozen poets. One a month. Nothing more.