Autotheory

Today the sky was blue
because
it tried to say the name
because
it couldn’t figure out
the length
of vowels for truth’s
escaping
slaughter
speech
held ripe inside the
dirt
which rose from flowers
like
the steam
from off the playground
swing
the bottle towards us
hinge
the daytime nightly
over water
crested onward
daze and daze of
raindrop
fodder
for the lambs to munch
incisors
flick the bic til white
beside her
face which couldn’t keep
or hide her
inside-side
her being
tells
the untrue story
bored
with new creation
tucks
the womb
untightly
nightly
fire
comes from stories
or
the stories come from fires
told
atop the cliffside
Satan
cast
his longest daylight
healed the
trembling
blue inside her
teeth and hands and empty
purse
her face in bloom
was beckoning
what was me

PLATO CAN GO FUCK HIMSELF

We speak / to the ghost / in a dish / of water
remind / and mind / again / and again
the difference / between a mirror / and a reflection / ask your self
who would give / their foot / to stare at the sun / embrace
blindness / find the difference / between a riddle / and a writing desk
is both / could learn / to say / anything

we speak / fill / time / we wax
to the sun / retroflecting / in a bird bath / an old roommate
calls / from an unknown number / admits / to masturbating
to the memory / of my face / I hang up / disgusted
reminded / we’re afraid / sometimes / of losing what was
our life / to the sun / cut up / and gloaming

we’re clutching for withes / like confetti / my nose / we used to think
too big / the neon green / of a child’s face / lit up with grass
we’ve reached the side / of living / which is / discont-
inuous / the apricity breaks us up / the winter / a powder
of Joan / an image / built in a worried mind / composite of girl

expectation of boy / the sparrows / and larks / put
to bed / like a bullet / my grandmother’s mind / coming out
of thin hair / peach fuzz shy / above lip / her burnt leather
hands / plucked butterflies and brown snakes / cucumbers and melon / out
the garden rumpling green / behind the shed / my red hands / picking
blackberried blood / and caterpillars / casting nets / among gnarls

I miss her calling / my secret / name / my deadname
I miss / her house / like a shack and her garden / I miss her
love / though I’m sure / it’s still there / we don’t call
she still prays / for the formless / boy / three toes now dead
from dementia / diabetes / amputated / lost

what’s there to say / she appears / in the mirror / of the botanical garden
the bird-bath / whose wooly roamers function / as memory / the recluse
that almost bit / between morning prayers / she speaks from far away / insists
on her recollection / an unknown number / from beyond / the laudanum
thick like cat-piss / in the mattress / when I was 5 / I was a rupture
needing questions / on form / answers on / the ideal we

she is hobbled / now / to the sunshine / she wags
and wags / and wags / her fingers / northward
6 states away / she goes out / to burn her / husband’s recliner
piss-stained sheets / his mattress / old stockings and shit kickers / the fire
neon green / with plastic / the realest event / I’ve ever seen
the salt on my face / I felt it / on someone’s thigh / last night

I learned / how to ask her / 6 states away / again and again
through the hole in my hands / again and again / and again / and again
when the life / we called mine / rose / right out of its
easy / burning / chair / and lived me

Joan Tate is a poet, tarotist, and MFA Candidate at UMass Amherst where she is working on two books of poetry about faith, wisdom, dreams, and serpents. You can find her work online if you look hard enough. You can find her on Instagram/Letterboxd as @JoantheLark