Poetry: Selections from Kelly Moyer

The Honeymoon Phase 

Give me the stench

of a juicy liverwurst fart, 

your heart-wrenching sobs

of joy and pain. Press me

like a flower with the tread 

of your spare tire, Then, 

pickle my lips, won’t you,

with the brine dripping

like a tincture or potion

into the scruff and scraggle

of your graying mustache.

Anything but goddamn

lavender and eucalyptus.

For nothing could be

more reassuring to me 

than the perfection

of your imperfections,

your caustic tone, reckless

driving and unpaid bills.

So, while we patiently wait 

for the power to be restored,

let me twine my fingers

through the unruly hairs

deep within your pits

and nip at the chap

of your lovely liver lips.

 

Later, by lamplight, I’ll take

my time, plucking pimentos 

from the narrow spaces 

between your crooked teeth.

Semi-Permanent 

Tonight, I dyed my hair 

the color of silence

seconds before the storm,

the smooth of silk,

shredded by the teeth

of a jealous lover.

See how each strand

glistens in the moonlight

with the brilliance

of a howl that echoes

through the dark

as an interminable shriek?

The way it tastes

of candy cigarettes,

lit with the disdain

of an unforgiving mother?

If I’m not mistaken,

the hue is likely

to wash out over time,

but I doubt that I 

or that towel of yours

will ever come clean.

Call of the Void 

The cat chased a blue-tailed skink

into my subconscious this afternoon

after cornering it near the fireplace

while I was happily icing cookies.

The moment it happened, I could tell

he was more than a little dismayed.

The living room, his eyes communicated,

is a finite space with walls and furniture,

whereas the depths of my psyche

tend toward the pitch-black vastness

of a vacuum that he finds daunting, 

yet alluring, nonetheless. L’appel du vide,

he explained as we curled up together

for a quick nap before evening. 

Within the hour, we gradually awakened 

forehead to forehead, whisker to eyelash, 

as he kneaded the pillow on which I rested 

my head. The pressure behind my eyes 

was intense and squirming, making me

more than a little woozy. Sensing

my pain, he held up a single paw and ran

from the bedroom. There was a brief

clank of cooling racks before he returned

with a sour cream cookie, decorated

in hues of orange and purple, which he

dropped on my chest, free for the nibbling.

Once satiated, I let my eyes fall back shut, 

savoring the coolness of his toe beans

as he splayed his soft paws through the wisp

of my errant locks, his low purr lulling 

me right back into a dreamscape of hearthfire,

buttercream frosting and little lizards with 

big dreams and oh-so-little time on their side.

Kelly Moyer can often be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her husband and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, has recently been released by Nun Prophet Press.