3 poems by Kristen Orser

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EIGHT SPOONFULS OF LIME JUICE TO FORGET THIS CENTURY


Dear Biddy brown eyes,
I am drunk in the morning

and having many relations to pink and red—

From the ear, what changed?

A fork tuning in the window;
I thought I heard someone say something, but there wasn't anyone there.

Remember the roses in your garden
and how we left your garden behind?

      Who feeds the chickens these days?


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MOST FAMILIAR SOUND: A DISH IS BROKEN


Well enough, in the opposite direction,
the effect of consciousness,
which leaves me
pinned when I'm trying

to sing.

All of this is a strange miracle: Can you
make sense of this: An evergreen browns.

I put words through a needle,
string together, and keep
them round my ankle—

this might be
why I'm always anxious.
I hear other countries

have sounds I've never heard. Why am I
here and not there?


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MOSTLY


Hatched. Dropped shadows in the sink:

                  lowercased
                  portioned out—

                  At noon, there might be ghosts,
                  reopening paper cuts

                  to see where the heart intersects the larynx.

                  Damn connectivity,


bee stings to the tongue—


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