January 29, 2010
NPR report on sheep
On the mountain, in the air, under evergreen icicles,
moisture soaking their noses,
turning to snow,
turning back to pink noses.
We don’t want to know how the 20% survived.
Their wooliness made of wool.
Oh how we borrowed it!
Now we go to church for our health, our remorse.
The girl who was paid to care for / love them won’t be coming back.
We shot her horse.
Horse with his broken foot, his collapse in the rain.
A farmer from 2 blocks up with a wet house came to help us rebuild our home.
We mentioned him on our blog.
The way he cared for the little splinters,
the little crops. How we loved
his wheat casserole. There are other foods that we eat but
we do not eat roasted lamb anymore.
3. One boy sings a deposit of love to Yumiko.
He is agony of sauerkraut,
she is chewing gum.
He is insufferable underpants,
she is purr of fructose.
He advises a figurative striptease.
The kick is aeronautic:
a wicked streamline that sugar plums
his walk into a legless roll.
2. Boy two filches the gum, the fructose,
writes in pity-ghost graffiti
on Yumiko’s wall of intellect.
This crumbles to a sea by which they mazurka daftly.
Lightning: insemination, awkward parting.
Nude baby escapes by helicopter.
1. Boy three flips headlong at sight of Yumiko
‘s water balloon arching toward him.
He tattles his feelings with tongue flusters,
she pops his I.Q. bubbles.
Baby returns with travel log.
Through my drunk mother I was upon this earth with nothing, spouting a light wind of fever, wailing “shit” with my postmortem darlings. Chains, too, became somewhat constraining, the meadow turned white with battle. Yearning, a man asked me downstairs, smell embracing the edges of a room full of touch again, me over myself at his empty dew.
Missed him to dust, the day throttling me one night, writing fractals on the earth around us.
Aging by the shutter, window a crack around the neck and day catching me cloudless, you were a neurotic doctor burrowing down the night unregarded.
We went through writing on the shocks, unbuttoning relationships. Now I can sleep, shut the book historically. The dove shadows my hand while we hear announcements about death in the animal world, parabolas of sunlight, tunnels in a field of stones.
In America I am devoting my force to the couch, where once, self-satisfied, you nuzzled my poems.
In the chair, however: desolation.
Lindsey Baggette is not currently living in Turkey. She does not put sugar in her tea and she has not swum from one bank of the Nile to the other with both hands tied behind her back. She has not been nominated for a national book award although she has not published any books.