:: Article

tea pleasures bodies

By Kim Campanello.

1
and you’re not an egyptologist
obituary will be accurate if
you write it yourself
and the tundra
and the goat who wouldn’t
leave your video camera alone
shots of bootprints in the fountain
bottom the hair dryer
on the statue’s base
your hairs on my lapel
up in the choir loft
and you will raise
me up against
the organ
grape leaves only on Tuesdays
if you could see it
the sharpie in my palm
I use to delineate
first was this
then this
son of hers
survived
a mock up a pin up
my skirt to the waistband
convenient work

2
we lost everyone with
our handholding fish
get wrapped up not sure
which kind or how
to prepare them in the bath
I took first in months water
poured down my back from your
bowl a child again the mussels
in water and onion
the mattress a table

3
shirt’s gone desperate
string tie cling to it
I have little mean
supports lifting silver
lining lace phrases
le petit glissement
wine’s body question
change qui lands
turns spoken faced
évite suis-je quelle belle

4
negotiate mole
constellation
my star my move

5
we hold ourselves back
humidity stuck in corduroy jacket
we’re all adults here throw speakers
out the window others need plants
offer cuttings
regret gnostics in a pile
aren’t helping here
we hold ourselves back
wrap our furniture in stains
and sprinkle fingernails
parse out flowers
tea pleasures bodies
shifting on horses
pawing at a stream
it’s not that we won’t take
risks what is it then I forget

6
patties of jamaica
I say jazz could’ve been
the girl gone grey
from hunger hails
summer brought
photographs chiding
rosacea faces bicep showing shirt
short banged follower
rack’em up shimmer
for him
close up

7
kinked swimsuits tossed
the floor the trouble
job love down there
all collared shirts
usual buffet
never mind this tiger
not so dirty underling
the now acted case by case then
taped wrists punched through
what egg not hard
crushed inside

8
s’done me a disservice
embolden yourself for
reminders heavy shelf
hung above bed
fear of falling minarets
out the window just shriners
making the little place
sacred hold me all night christ
enough summary
dismissal to morning

9
un peu
de sheet ça s’apelle
s’épele comment

why’d gone to get more wine
brother-in-law musulman shown
purple teeth
contact dead husband from
government apart.
braiding tight tight
tu seras
dragée par les noirs

10
japanese spoken in
love making the usual
shame guide the hand
along fish served in a boat
less expensive than crockery
korean store bought free
gifts of underwear socks
white child lost in parking lot
comes to me who are
we walking with plastic sacks
am I your bastard white
daughter father found model
train shop so
taller than you

11
triad blond blond brown
fused hushed film sound
dirty boy hair canned between cushions
smells always of the same
where to nap is the pillow
smelling most of the passed
around decision
all shortchanged who knows who
keeps who stick with me
in able minded times

12
she said not again
daddy du thon trop
cuit
for the guest
tiny bed no heat
more younger women room
stiltswalker costumes chateaubriand
early edition found
listening to tiny bones
cracking cold china

13
starry eyed mirror
I have your pilgrims
clean housed checkbook
sweatshirt silence
who has worshipped
your face mole lately
looked down on poor
posture cheating climate
told you heard you hear

14
love it died on your vacant land
drink make from honey strong
that night those stars

15
so I told you little
hot chocolate desolate
expensive café wind
around the subject
slid so cleanly
baby talk underheard

16
step the bridge rotten
pissing empty factory
on the manuals notes
so out of tune gears
for you understood
silence decrepit graffiti
artists hook letters
overread pockets
time chance pants
too tight lie back
water’s flat boss
gone home meet me
in an alley forget chairs

17
a waist all
kneeling at her
saw water wonder
le lac qui ne parle pas
souvent
toes blue
show me vein
backing out from love
room making up

18
chosen fish smell
for understanding
you think of paring
me down
on a plate always heads
move off to a distant pit
smell my hand
from the sea home
we take

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana, and now divides her time between Dublin and London. Her pamphlet Spinning Cities was published by Wurm Press in 2011, and her debut collection Consent was published this year by Doire Press.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Saturday, December 14th, 2013.