CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
Allison Carter
On Birthdays
Alaska turned 10 on a
summer storm day.
She set out breakfast
on a rickety table by
the summer sea
Alaska loves breakfast best.
And the dog wobbled into
the dog-space under
the rickety table droopily.
Some children, Vancouvers and
Angels and Victorias and
Washingtons, some children don’t
like birthdays.
They wake up and the
gray sky has twisted around
the house and squeezing
twists all tongues
from saying foreign happy
birthday
the shrinking sky
shrinking and high
the furling sails of the
pacific sky shrinking
me-mystery and you-mystery shrouding
the furled tight sky and
lonely, pulling
goodbye to the sky!
striking all your good
friends down
in the subsequent light
and the wishing smoke and
the cake.
Alaska looked with smoky eye
at the dog named Sunset who
said woof
which raised new questions.
The sun behind all the rain
is only real in retro-
spect, said the real dog
and the only things that came to the party
sat under the table
with the dog—freebooters
and scams
Would you like more cake?
Alaska loved, would vanish
against the ocean
often lost when finally the gold
electroplate of the sun
could return to clear up
What’s Done Is Done
On the island of
Whasdunizdun
there are no snow plows.
Or when there are snow plows
there are no mechanics.
Or when there are no mechanics
there is no worker’s compensation.
Or when there is worker’s compensation
there are no doctors.
In short, the island
is good or bad as any
other island.
In a small cave lives
a large dog named Sunset.
From across the snowy
plains her long tail
is long like a snow leopard’s tail
and up close her breath
is warm like Earl Gray Tea.
Sunset’s baby was kidnapped
by breeders
and taken to the mainland
but Sunset can’t swim
far enough to cross the
water that separates the
mainland from Whasdunizdun.
Still, in the mornings Sunset
opens all the gates to her
expectations and at the
evening she closes them daily.
One blanched day a skunk came streaking
across the snow to Sunset’s cave.
“My name is Alaska and I
am cold and lost, can I
sit in your cave with you?”
“My daughter was named Alaska,”
replied the big dog
and the skunk came inside
and curled into the breath
that insulated the cave.
the skunk was shaking
away from her center
and full of wind
and outside the snow fell silently
and the perfect dips
and crusts had no paw prints
and the water knocked at
the shore all night
shyly onto the porch of the island and
receding, as if visiting
an old friend
and the snow was piling up on
the top of the cave
and the ocean was knocking
as if visiting a lost lover or
a brother or sister
and the snow kept piling on
the roof of the cave
and the ocean was knocking as if
at the part of your mouth that you
always rope in
that you tie up,
knowing you’re a fair sailor
but a poor swimmer
while the snow in the
ocean frothed and the hour kept
proceeding, receding
My Nice Empire
My best friends
Rose and Hawk
and I discovered
a tunnel lined in petals
in which under
each petal a cavity
lined with petals etc.!
Hawk like myself has
residual fear
of tunnels that get smaller
but Rose
is a cat.
We spent the day exposing things
to the sun,
hiding behind
architectural nuances
when the neighbors
walked by.
The tunnel was either full
of water or not.
Who sees water
and why?
Currents not
tunnels.
Our p.o.v. changes
regarding the currents
that quiver
too fast for love.
We packed the bags with food.
Often the wind is calling
someone’s name not mine
and under my
feet is a cavity
lined in feet
&etc.
leaking
rope
A hundred
stuffed animals play
along
very
healthy
glorious
in the
very
sunny
day.
My nice empire
declines all invitations
to war
perennially
Sea View Avenue
The brain being balanced
on the seat of the soul
after all
at all times without
fastening
sudden such explosions of soul
bright and unbelted
close to the center of town occur
such that
two lovers
leap into the hot sun as
glittering mink.
As a reporter
I came to watch.
“I don’t love you when
you bulldoze my roses
and lemon trees”
and other unthatching,
mean things
as children gathered to watch
with salt sandwiches
the toothy hearts.
Some on stilts to be eye level
with the soul
Some in a ball to get tossed
to the level of the soul
and the whole crowd drifted
towards Sea View Avenue.
the little round bullet
shaped like the little round sun
just kissed her elbow
but all the gulls stopped
and the swapping breezes
stopped and the papermen
like myself felt
ashamed.
The siren noise is the quietest noise—
salt sandwiches on the street
when it started to rain.
Allison Carter is the author of a book, A Fixed, Formal Arrangement (Les Figues, 2008), and a chapbook, Shadows Are Weather (Horse Less Press, 2008). She currently lives in Los Angeles, where she teaches workshops at various institutions, including CalArts and Eagle Rock Center for the Arts. Links to online work and a schedule of upcoming readings, classes and events can be found on her website, accarter.com.
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