Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, OR, with her teenage son and three catz. She has been published online, included in anthologies, and has a chapbook (“Kelley Point“) available at Powell’s. She cuts hair for wages and writes for love.
It’s Not Too Late To Salvage The Piece of Glass That Surfaced On Your Knee
The milk dregs.
I looped several million hairs of sheep for your death blanket, the one
they shrank after your death.
You said it was tiny seizures you were having as your brain made
room for the tumors.
Fat ankles fattening.
We sat together when John Kerry lost. I pushed a cart slowly the next
day at Trader Joe’s.
Unnaturally colored wigs.
I waited up several nights in a row. You died during the one when I slept.
Nursing my son, he and I both cried.
I still have the cast of your torso in the room under my stairs.
It’s not a ghost.
Many nights I was drunk when you shuffled to your pill box.
Often I try to forget you told me where your sex toys were.
I came in to say goodbye, pushed against your skin and everything
that filled you pushed back hard.
In The Five Days Since You Left
The shower got me clean but standing
naked keeps clothing me again and again.
Half the water and half the amount
of everything and it is either too potent
or I’ve forgotten how to take a measure.
A blanket tent. The glaciers
bum-rush my bedroom.
A prohibition of stars and of whispers
over unlawful shoulders.
A prohibition as unbutton/or.
I don’t believe in returning. I use
the telephone. I use butterknives.
“It’s Not Too Late To Salvage The Piece of Glass That Surfaced On Your Knee” + “In The Five Days Since You Left” are both previously published in Fuck Art, Let’s Dance Issue #012.