Thrift
BY AMY WOOLARD
In the Kingdom of the Imperfect, I was
A consolation. My nothings a line of salt.
Grief organized itself inside of me, as if it were my fool
Love for you, or a stocked shelf, a consignment aisle
To wander. The old textbook said Even the bones
Are watery & I know what you mean,
Bones. I ran my hands lightly along each
Hangered dress like brushing the tops of wheat
Stalks in an endless, golden field. What was I, before
You. How was I priced. What woolen name,
Before it was a word that brought me to my own
Brink. Mercy, the second-hand coat’s pocket,
The five-dollar bill forgotten inside. The fury
Of its silk lining’s unspeakable tear. What could be
Found. The long con of the body, & the charlatan
Beloved. Of course I wanted more
Time. A knuckle’s worth. The way a season once
Hunted is now an animal waiting in a shelter, love—
A word left in a pocket. If over half of me
Is water, why can’t the rest be light.
Wake
BY AMY WOOLARD
Just for the breath no one else can hear: the crisp
Ignition of this cigarette tip catching its light. Like
The next crop of cicadas, I will have nothing to say
For thirteen years. It was only a girl ago I was lit
By a certainty I wouldn’t make it this far, did not see
Becoming this inelegantly forgetful, how plush carpet
Will make you feel ever like a guest even
In your own room. Sleep is just a metal bucket
Placed under a ceiling leak after an enormous storm.
Love, what I loathe most is how obvious I’ve been
Made: since one of us split I’m now obliged to live
For two, the way a dog can’t help but codify
Every wolf come before. It’s not a secret until you tell it
Historically. Outside it’s early April in the two thousand &
Second visible world. If it were fit to print, the paper would claim
You were survived by me. I would have made of my body a body
To protect her. How the dog turns circles until a soft bowl of grass.
Every spell designed to raise the loved dead has worked
Imperfectly, bringing them back but verbless & grieving
For home. I am simply contaminated with your attention.
