Two Poems

by Kell Connor

Kell Connor lives in Nebraska. Recent work appears in Big LucksColumbia Poetry ReviewHere Comes EveryoneVerse, and elsewhere.

Who Made Who

So help me whomever,
I lost the sword by which
I keep my word. I kept the sores
with which I weep openly.
The ointment, thick, glossy,
studded with some six
hundred flies. Of course I’d
hurt ‘em. Wouldn’t I? The woods
are crawling with me. I’m
dissolving, dark slime climbing
piles of damp leaves. Decay
is a style of decline, not retreat.
The skeletal canopy—
Entropy is a unit of measurement,
not an admission of defeat.

 

Highway to Hell

All trod on hallowed sod.
Come as a gunman, come
as a guard unarmed.
In the balm of surveillance,
in the calm of a mounted camera,
in cheap black pantyhose
the redacted crotch,
the opaque patch. In time
the book broke its binding.
I’m biting mine. I’m minced.
I’m mice or less. The sky
tonight looks nice in that dress.

 


Kell Connor lives in Nebraska. Recent work appears in Big LucksColumbia Poetry ReviewHere Comes EveryoneVerse, and elsewhere.

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