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About this poet

Paisley Rekdal is the author of Animal Eye (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012), winner of the 2013 UNT Rilke Prize for Poetry; The Invention of the Kaleidoscope (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007); Six Girls without Pants (Eastern Washington University, 2002); and A Crash of Rhinos (University of Georgia Press, 2000), winner of the University of Georgia Press’ Contemporary Poetry Series Award. She is the recipient of the Amy Lowell Poetry Traveling Fellowship, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, among others. She teaches at the University of Utah.

Self-Portrait as Mae West One-Liner

Paisley Rekdal

I'm no moaning bluet, mountable
linnet, mumbling nun. I'm
tangible, I'm gin. Able to molt
in toto, to limn. I'm blame and angle, I'm
lumbago, an oblate mug gone notable,
not glum. I'm a tabu tuba mogul, I'm motile,
I'm nimble. No gab ennui, no bagel bun-boat: I'm one
big mega-ton bolt able to bail
men out. Gluten iamb. Male bong unit.
I'm a genial bum, mental obi, genital
montage. I'm Agent Limbo, my blunt bio
an amulet, an enigma. Omit elan. Omit bingo.
Alien mangle, I'm glib lingo. Untangle me,
tangelo. But I'm no angel.

Copyright © 2013 by Paisley Rekdal. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2013 by Paisley Rekdal. Used with permission of the author.

Paisley Rekdal

Paisley Rekdal

Paisley Rekdal is the author of Animal Eye (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012), The Invention of the Kaleidoscope (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007), Six Girls without Pants (Eastern Washington University, 2002), and A Crash of Rhinos (University of Georgia Press, 2000).

by this poet

poem
How horrible it is, how horrible
that Cronenberg film where Goldblum's trapped

with a fly inside his Material
Transformer: bits of the man emerging

gooey, many-eyed; bits of the fly
worrying that his agent's screwed him–

I almost flinch to see the body later
that's left its fly in the corner, I mean

the fly
poem

A man can cry, all night, your back
shaking against me as your mother
sleeps, hooked to the drip
to clear her kidneys from their muck
of sleeping pills. Each one white
as the snapper’s belly I once watched a man
gut by the ice bins in his truck, its last 
bubbling grunt cleaved in

2
poem
unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,

silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim

the muddled air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound

we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can’t fill them up.

A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.

And