dancing girl press, 2011
Laura Carter lives in Atlanta, GA.
from Midheaven Leo:
I had never been to the city without him before. He’s out of eggs, and I’m tired. We write sonnets on each other’s solar plexuses. I prefer electric, he says, with a tired note weeping out of his nostrils. Have you ever found Santa Fe the same as you left it? is the only question I can think of when Saturday comes around again. Is this allegorical for sex, again? and so it happens. The birds ask, quietly, make us question what stormy weather has to do with the sheen. It’s always Sunday in Manitoba, the baker reminds me, softly bleeding with the pen’s ache. Me, too, I want to respond, but I can’t. My tongue is sore from the kissing, which continues. Keep playing at spades in the backyard, but never in the market, he reminds me. I saw Jesus come down from heaven in a blaze of glory once, never needed to be told that he was simply a dream. I’m like, oh yeah? He remembers to put me in my place again, as if we had not been aching for placement for years. I rename him Same Sam. I bring him flowers of gold and iris. We elucidate the obvious in our captured haze and then move on to the finer things. Where we belong. And then, and then.