When she reeked of distraction, a dozen fools
set out to decant her childhood.
Wearing that cheapest of her grandfather’s cologne,
pheromones, she traveled with a herd of guardian angels,
who stood at the end of her bed
and watched. Some masturbating.
Some just curious about her proven technique.
Slicing through sunlight to reach the night,
she fenced with Satan. Breathed
with sunlungs. Dicing up her name,
she married once or twice or
you know. Choosing green fondant
to cover her burnt cake, she filed
her flops with a judge.
Oh sure, she winked and wore a hood
of would and should. Her obituary didn’t mention
she was an easy girl. A piece of ass.
Or that she’d turned their sugar canes to fuel.
Kandie St. Germain's the author of Closet Drama (Bear Star Press 2001), and her poems have most recently appeared in Willow Springs, By&By Poetry, and A Bad Penny Review.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.