CAMERON DECKER
Open Casket
Sometimes
I can't
move
a single chess piece
without
bursting into angles.
I
get distracted
trying
to smooth the white square
of
cloth covering my face. But
there
is a place I go
where
I don't have to miss
the
sundial:
The
freckles on your face and body,
the
way they trade places.
Your
collarbone wreathed in sleeping lilies.
We
pry out our diodes.
We
make our two cities touch.
This
white owl refuses to snow
in
reverse, but with the gentle unpinning
of
each corner of silk,
I
shovel more coal into the sky and call it
a death in both directions.
Summer, I didn't get the flowers you sent
Because
I was afraid of your leaving
and
spent four months guarding
a
nest of Malachite eggs,
little
never-hatchlings.
Because
a hummingbird's breath
smells
like dynamite.
Because
the mole beneath
your
left breast
reminds
me of Europe.
Laughing
in antique shops.
Ugly
chair. Big Navajo braid.
Because
if you ask for a metaphor,
you
will receive a pair
of
jumper cables
with nothing to attach them to.
BIO
CAMERON DECKER is a poet and programmer living in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared in journals such as Black Tongue Review and The Laureate. More information about other projects can be found on his website, www.rockandrazor.com.