Kat Dixon

*

I AM SLOW AS THE WORLD

Are you sorry for what will happen? There are so many months
that I’ve spent stealing other women’s poems, the moon. I do
not think so, I do not think you will come upon a single calling

of I do. I am a great event when I walk in in one lace dress that
went purchased before threat of it, even before there was a man
to say he would, I do. I rehearse you, small white sheets or bath

hours but do not have to happen when you say or I say I do. He
is arranging his small brown poems. He stands on the hills, one
pleasant-appearing thing and then another. I am ready, I do

what I already know. What happens in me is a thing that happens
without need or want of attention – the moon comes faced as
a man – but I do.

*

*

THE STREETS MAY TURN TO PAPER SUDDENLY

I am neither shadow nor wife. I have no hand for painting
flowers nor how they fill any room or bedspread or plate

of meats for guests who come to fill my house and how
that happens. How unlucky to have a secret, women, how

unlucky it is to have. I have one broken finger
still but am no wife. Check through these windows at my

winter leaves: they are green with life. This pill-by-pill makes one
book and cowers. And so we are at home together, after hours.

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