Book Review for Slaves to do These Things:

Subterranean Blue Poetry

Volume V Issue VIII


by Amy King

Buried by midnight

I am a warm

fly in amber.

A reflection buzzes

against my wings’

vision quest:

this window square

above the Atlantic,

leading me down the lane

by moonlight’s hand

beneath the shadow’s sun

in oil-blue water,

a darker planetary hug

of crooked limb

with etched-on hand.

You have not listened

to the tones of trees,

our branches, our trunks,

calm as axes,

gathered roots beneath

a sheer drop of future stars,

at least.

We flicker too,

stone-white skeletons

modeled on the earth’s

black-bloated heart,

her skinny boots

that march circles

on the universe.

We go around in them,

meeting ourselves

behind our backs,

knocking the boney

knockers of spines

with parading breath.

One side strikes

the other: language cheapens?

We speak where all symbols

want power

such as a door which opens,

takes persimmons to its lover,

the other side, to no knock.

We can’t remind the lover

to love any more

than we can love ourselves

without the lover,

borne by the landing of light.

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Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2017