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About this Poem 

“This poem comes from a forthcoming collaborative Bon Aire Projects book with writer/artist Reagan Louise, wherein we wrangle with radical love, kinship, sisterhood, expansiveness, and hilaria. This poem is relatively ready to embrace 2015.”
Danielle Pafunda

Literal, Littoral, Littleral

I have enough times been the ampersand,
the hitch between two vehicles
the vehicle itself careening questionably
up the mountain road, which is,
in my opinion, poorly designed, a hazard.
It is sometimes called the coast,
the coastal highway, but never
the cliff-side transfer whereby you take
your life in your hands, or more literally
the wheel in your hands, or the hands
beside which you sit, the wheel by which
many subtle gestures ensure
your safe arrival. Anyhow, it seems to me
a very poor choice of transit. However
much we love vehicular independence,
the illusion thereof. Or the glamour
of regency ghouls. That golden age.
Anyhow, the vehicle, she, why not,
that has many times been me,
and hardly splendorous, sinking
dolefully, doefully, dutifully
into the “lake,” rolling graceless over,
eating up the “blurred yellow lines,”
eating pavement, often graciously so.
I have been the pinch of weather
in the phenomenological space
between you lovers, the compartment
in which you exist hand to thigh.
The crowbar in the garden rusting
from strange use, with little ambition,
who would throw such a thing there?
And when I am no longer analogous,
I go. Likely poorer and better off besides.

Copyright © 2015 by Danielle Pafunda. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2015 by Danielle Pafunda. Used with permission of the author.

Danielle Pafunda

Danielle Pafunda

Danielle Pafunda is author of The Dead Girls Speak in Unison (Bloof Books, 2016). She teaches at the University of Wyoming, Laramie.

by this poet

poem

What use in you you wrong wrought wood
what bevel escaped its key. A mandible
beyond its prey an arrow all shaft in each
one its torso oddly pierced and tails that spring
like thistle weed a root that wears a vacant stay
and tacky to the touch its itch to form a place
gone red with

2
poem
Do not pretend that you don't like it
when we threaten you.

We see you getting pheromone stink
under the collar, moaning, baldly. 

Motionless, picturing decay.

When we creak your step,
when we crack your glass,
when we tap tap tap,

that is a bone

that is all we have

though we are very shiny,
and filled
poem

As a feral thing would. As a dead leaf
whose crunch she herself hears, whose

buggy interior floods the sidewalk. Beamy
the world, yet a blank all the same.


Where you’ve tucked your pen into your notes,
I tuck my fingernail, burned and cursed and

shut tight my