I have lush grass in my mouth come sit,
come mess with my unplumbed sum, let
your finger at leisure destroy my mute,
my hermetically sealed little baggie of spit.
I treasure whatever will stay in the room:
it’s a skill I developed of knowing no No.
And if it goes well we can bury our wit
in the small mammal graveyard at Sutton
and 4th. On its back. In the dark. No soft
lumps of light sneaking through. Now we
are tulips whose main function is to petal
down as fast as possible—how do I help?
I’ll write you a wife who hates my hair.
Your wife can stop by to thank me in half.
Rennie Ament’s poetry has appeared in West Branch, Minnesota Review, Bat City Review, Sixth Finch and Colorado Review, among others. She is the runner-up for the 2019 Erskine J. Poetry Prize from Smartish Pace, winner of the 2018 Yellowwood Poetry Prize from Yalobusha Review, a finalist for the 2018 Anzaldúa Poetry Prize from Newfound, and a nominee for both the Pushcart Prize and Best New Poets. A recipient of fellowships from the Millay Colony, the Saltonstall Foundation, the New York State Summer Writers Institute and the Vermont Studio Center, she lives in Maine and online at www.rennieament.com
This poem was originally published in Diagram.