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Seven Poems
Day Book

One wants to grasp a latch.
The broken star, the cellophane.
One suffers if untethered from
the pain that brought a lock.
Across the way the husband tends his teeth.
The wife redresses, parted from her paper.
To emblemize, to separate the word
grief reaches. Grief reaches, unseduced.



I collapse what I know into clouds I can hold
Till the lapse stills against my unknown catch.
Inside the thought I cannot see. But I can see
My hand. It's the thinking caught blinking
That cliffs back to breeze: sugar soldered
To a bra; a rawing in the night trap. Nothing's
In it. The sound contains the solid played as
Real when real is rubbed raw felt. I knock
A fist into some wall. The body's just
A blotch, a knot the rain (rock melt) collapses.



The nature of nature
is nothing. I write a state to erase
the memory. But I write the memory
to rewild it. Where does silence
turn? In the night, in a block
of water? Words close up
the thing in ribbons and
streams that stop. Nothing
is nothing. Seeds crystallize
around the cut.



I know his back better than he
Which brings up questions of land gender
And arrows as symbols (of land and gender).
My favorite televison show
Is not really about death. My favorite bed
Is the soft that holds his back. This language
Of border and divvy is no way to write
A body, as metonymy skins and wrecks
The voice, but still I flag him
To the sticky pin.



What good's a metaphor and who
cares? Someone's dying. Someone's
being killed. My little flight of idea
turns a loch to ice. Ink, onion. What's
a metaphor but a junction in fire. One person
kills another. One swallows the active
rook. Whatsoever metaphor equates
no to wax blooming on a plum, that's
acquittal. That's the word gorging
abreast toothless and bird. Hi, blameless
moon. Murder, hello. I knew my engine
into a rock, then the rock burned.


Open weather

This was my intention: the practiced mess.
The cup on the sill breeds some juice inside.
What's written but carnage, silver come briefly.
No one threats the floor to slow.
If trunks shrivel and self-hollow curse.
Still the damp, the mystery of fever.
A clock sheens the earthgrown thing.
The day. Every word a balloon and shatter.



What's glue and what's gift?
A mountain of crumb.
Light splint on the open source.
I do fill spaces, blue squares.
I do see a man with no hair in his mouth.
Little blue April, name like an almost word.
Smiling under the ambulatory blue.
What's the cry against the cry's lost?
I'm beloved and suppressed.
Lined answer, peeling the lint trap.
Cruft of smartness.

Anne Marie Rooney is the author of No Beautiful (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2018) and Spitshine (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2012). Her poetry has been twice featured in the Best American Poetry anthology, and has been the recipient of the Iowa Review Award, the Gulf Coast Poetry Prize, and others. She lives in Baltimore.