Bailey Schaumburg

3 Poems

dream speech

 

the bridge. fecal matter. the blinds.

the stove. the flower. the shrub.

            the dynamo, silk-laden hand of your brain, doling punishment

for the way

you do your day.

 

            or.

 

            when you and your sister were children, you “fished”

                        in the front yard. you had the poles, the bait,

                                    the tackle box.

 

it seems harrowing, to speak solely in the tongue of dreams

            and memories. like the wrong way

                        to live a life.

            like all you’re missing

                        is the fish,

                                    and water.

hidden mouth 

 

it’s monday, the day disguised

as a storm. the cool of hidden mouth,

 

opening only in secret. i wonder all the time

about poets, how they always seem

 

so uncertain and so sure, destroying

and fixing something in tandem. the dam

 

breaks, there is no stopping the speeches

and the ideas about corn, the greens

 

sprouting out in strange places, growing

their own wee brains. poets don’t have wings,

 

but plants do. their blades pulling out

like the fraying hem of the world. mistaking

 

nothing for nothing, giving back what’s

naturally requested and given.

 

 

 

 

a deer and three birds  

 

streamlined and traipsing. a doe in the path of some birds. ahead to the right, a building dies. it cowers in the light, a vision for astrologists. here comes the first bird. a gull in the face of the deer. due to sidelong eyes and an overshot flight path, an awkward encounter. gruffy, fluttering, fervent, over. the previously mentioned building, home to piano and woman. she grows pink-fleshed  pineapple on the top floor, they mold and the building turns to sugar. the second bird. wingspan black and agape, it meets the doe at the heart of her face, then vanishes in the collapsible velvet folds of the sky. two riders rip out from the rear of the building on horseback. one has control, the other whips like an infected banshee. out toward another distance they peel, that’s all for them. to the third bird, now. the most apical beak, the peakest talons. a heroic wingspan, freckled with human assumption. it doesn’t approach the deer at all. careening the gaze of the story, it lands in some brush alongside. it’s crimson. pure crimson. and wild as hell.