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.