Cortney Bledsoe







waves in the runoff pond     stream of bracken

    this is Time     Time  pats mud with his tail

gnaws sticks     green and pliable

    weeds cover his home like night

He wheezes into the water     lets me see his eyes

    spring comes     Does he sleep?

We wait for winter to see him waddle again





I sit on staples each morning when I wake.

This is how you keep memories sharp.


The rose in the sky is dripping scent

in your ears like a Baptist plugging a revival.


These aren't clouds. They don't whisper anything

you'd want your mother to smell so don't take them


home. Lies.





Your face is a box. Your face is cardboard

and I've lived seven years waiting for a box cutter.


Your thoughts have spread like air. Your thoughts

stack in the corner, house roaches, wait to be filled.


Scurrying thoughts. Thoughts that eat

your skull. Thoughts that scritter


on the walls behind posters

so I can't sleep. Your thoughts sleep


in the day, hide, flat on back, legs kicking.

Chewing through your eyes, your cardboard eyes.