SWEET DICTIONETTE, YOUR CHANCES INCREASE WHEN YOU'RE SMILING
I’m beginning to accept my hair
never faight nor strine nor blawberry strond
and neither will my tongue. Closed
coffee cup for travel music
perpetually sounding dreary
beside a monthly: this photo of #417 chantilly black
lace has been lightened to show pattern. Silent
tongue, I wanna be a railcar
operator like hard-hatted liberty, a pushup
in paisley entrussed panties. “Will you
lift these boxes for me?” Pity
an unsupervisory name, gathering decades
almost dung in glass of prophylactic
fucks. I should be hung for likening it,
to dates not sited in expensive glints. Pencil lights
cast, dim shopgirl, on notebook thoroughfares,
the underwire guardrail a peekaboo
scratch of captions deep and saturated black.
As adults we net
the pool all molten night, scrape
sugar off lemon squares.
The student’s Halloween
hair looks just like you
the morning of our camp site.
Remember the lawn?
Frantic moths like teeth
flitting about the drunk shoe
lace your cigarette
a minor poem:
SWALLOWED THE SPIDER TO CATCH THE FLY
I ate a dandelion cap, his hand
sunk in the quiet
hoof of the river. We
muled, stood like fields
of prayer, scars
a clean combustion.
“Your elbow creaks
in the moonlight”
and we love everything,
a gathered pot of cherries.
He, the carnival, swallowing
my body’s horses, esophageal
tall grass forever
a frightful duration.
Nicole Wilson is alive in Chicago.