Charmi Keranen

I know about the other room.
Daisy-cutter kissing wolf spider sliding
eggs into a cast iron pan.
Except for you, and you.
Good morning, sunshine.
Touch the white of his back, the coldest
I know halogen blue nipples,
calumet isn’t a city,
the wind doesn’t chime.

Tua Pulchra Puella

A man walks into a bar and says

to the waitress, Tua pulchra

Slow, very slow.   And

the waitress stares at him, just

stares at him.  Because she knows

it isn’t true.  The weight of the language

is more than her waitress arms can bear. 

But the man is flapping, frantically

flapping, on the head of a pin.  No

angel, no wings, losing balance, not

sure where  to begin. The waitress falls

over the horizon, an orbit, and circles

back again.  The man quickly opens

his hand.  I’m holding five copper pennies,

he says, then suddenly folds his palm.

What is the forbidden city, she asks

him, and when can we go again.