Daily Postings
Literature : first proof

Tamara Gonzales, Ancient Alien Theorist Believe, 2010. Spray paint on paper. Courtesy of the artist.


I’ll take a long view of the legs
and I’ll readily endure them
I will even hallow them, as a speaker-set,
I am actually tripping. I’m not,
but you see how some skins
go red-yellow-red-yellow? I was tripping
saying I could see all my fat and the blood cohabiting
but I could. The legs
take a stance, the legs have a pinion,
the legs make the ground distant. I’m kidding,
they’re inside, it’s floor. And I’m kidding,
I’m sitting. The chair makes the distance.
The legs blotch, like flypaper-pigment.
They’re loudspeakers
today. Playing the cassette
of the cunt and its wishes.
I wish
they would play it more quiet.
The legs go hither and thither just blasting
the cunt’s wants, like
you and you. You and you.
The cunt wants in twos. Or the legs
fathom binaries better?
They play loudly. And jigging with speed,
forgo unction, spraying
their reserves in the noon air,
so sun robs them midmotion.
This sun shows nothing new, the legs,
like all movers moved by a desiring engine,
and protracted desire devours treasure:
for example, wallets dry up on the dance floor.
But the legs come out upright.
I will allow them. Pillars to my deity.
Pinnacles for my nonpareil,
my succulent, all of a unity
paddles for the cleaved canoe,
breathes heady air from the leg’s height,
it wants. I believe in the cunt,
I’ll believe in the legs

All Out of Doors

It was an ordinary wander,
me and my sister,
under trees etcetera.
We saw the surface of a puddle,
and the surface of a lake,
and a tree’s surface,
and the surface of the earth,
and I saw her face’s surface,
I saw her see my face’s surface.
Inside our home is benumbing comfort,
but outside we can’t escape the superficial.
Corrugated rocks
and accurately whirring weathervanes,
boulders and sprouts,
porous surfacing stones
and the doorway’s surface.

Fish Friends

My zodiac is thirsty
or am I just saying that because it sounds sexy
but it actually sounds awful
like I’m the fireball chasing fish
who just want to glint at me sideways
and flush downriver right around bedtime
invaginated in the cleanest laundry folding
--------what did the hand want with my hand
that was the softest high five ever
lingering and I withdrew wanting
therefore to mosh with them with much lunging,
is that how I lose fish?
Days of hungry river helping,
fruit stuffing and meat making
out of animals, what’s that niggling
in the river’s corner? A Jesuit, a metal can,
a swallowable virus? That high five
was so angelic I am sore
within my instincts.


Because my lights go slip
I treasure my regrets.
Where the dial gets
really wide, where fingers fail,
and the snow bank slinks to glass,
green gestates hesitantly, I can understand,
terrified of being ice.
But platefuls
of lispy salad greens
suggest idyllic patience with desire,
a fielded or a hilly waiting,
skirt-peeping hopefulness,
flipping the woolly folds.
Ease like a napping pilot
where the sea is dangerous
or like sex is dangerous
for the shepherdess.

Sophia Dahlin is a poet in Iowa City, where she runs the Human Body Series with Davy Knittle. Her work is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, The Awl, and Colorado Review, and can be tracked here.