TWO POEMS by CLEMENTINE MORSE

Night Job


there’s something we could have learned

from dog bellies

it’s that there’s nine nipples

ten puppies

no space

in a night

or a body

or a bed

for all our lonely mouths


I spent the morning pillowed by scrawly day babies

who made pictures of our worst nightmares:


monsters and the sunshine

and what would happen should the two meet


the babies surrounded me

they put their arms up for lifting

but at the end of the day

I put them down


then the night came around

came around to rely on me, the monster


I tossed the dirt and spayed my keys

so I wouldn’t pass through shut doors


but now, demon hour,

I vow

for or against things


in your 4am dollhouse

our penitent timebomb clarity

punishes us with its muffled backlog


in your 5am dollhouse

you’ve locked my greasy jaw

between thumb and forefinger

and you want to know what do I know

about matters of when?

if I’m up this late


Well, I stayed awake just to tell you


I had a bad night

and that certain solitudes

stay up to search for sundials


sundial, sundial

every once in a while

I ask myself what that is


what it is

is the shadow casts light



Escape

I stand in front of the fridge

my blue lips stuck to a leftover chicken thigh.

my thinking is as clear as bathwater

I call clean having never cleaned the tub.

it is possible that someone else did.

who else sings a contagious sleepwalk song

that spreads faster if you try to wake

cold bones from the refrigerated light

that do not want to be awoken?

for me it is a bright night

wearing silks shaded in a pale

palette I did not choose myself

for you this is an onset of evening

always there is processional darkening

as you are sundowning your hair

hangs in tendrils from your scalp

your hair weeps into your hand

I might postscript on a post-it note

on the fridge what you mean

if I knew what you meant

your hand curled in anguish

is the only reason your head stays on

to wake me up your tongue

unrolls extraordinary phrases

Maybe we should leave and move to Fresno

Maybe we should leave and move to the Vatican

Maybe it’s all the burning gravel on the ground

that makes us run faster

this is not the color I wanted,

but the universe is mysterious

and I have trouble speaking up

I hear a girl leaving the salon

say about her nails

like a big baby

I think there’s no better way

to describe something like fate

yesterday a three year old told me

that babies can’t tell the truth

when I asked her to say goodnight to her doll

she keeps hitting him on the head

with her magic wand demanding sleep

from its plastic eyes

I’m lavished by serene visions

like the real child

finally asleep and the tree

graveyards in the mountains

thank you for this

it’s suggested that we blame

the future on the past

it guarantees you a cash refund

in bills bloated from floating

in the standing waters

pacing in circles at the starting line

I do believe I have it all

figured out just now

I’m screaming I won I won

I wonder how long

this horn will blow!


Clementine Morse (she/her) is a poet from Brooklyn. She currently works as a preschool teacher and lives in Los Angeles. You can find her on instagram @clementinemorse.

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TWO POEMS by CASEY GARFIELD

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A THING by IMOGENE MAHALIA