LAUREN HALDEMAN

Are Floods, Every Room

At the far end of the field: urn-tree & kudzu bloom. No one
will notice. Not the moss, not the little pink eardrums.
I have discovered my own evaporation point. Little mass
of mud-slick, me, and you turn the doorknob. Come in.

This is a house of fragmentation, this is the earnest roll
of suckle-sap. Slow down, wait.

Weather pantomimes outside. The windows are draped with
periodic charts. Wind slides in, white flags & neon fists.
Bootleg, gum-spirit, bottlebrush. Begin.

Fang Song

Fang Song is a quiet
Place in the brain.
There is one sign swinging there.
It says 'What?' on it.
Behind this is sky, and
Is something else—
A spout of water
That sparkles in the air.
Have you ever been there?
Yes I found dogs.
Did their fur smell of the grave?
They were very directional.
Their fangs sang a song
About wind-chimes and things
I opened my mouth
And it took them all in
In the thunder snow
Where scrawny mongrels
Often roam loose.

Whirling Bird

Oh cotton star in the old-timey jug
I’m drinking dandelion-ade by the electric keyboard
Drink deep
The nation is so far away
Electrifyingly
But here
The air is tricked with gemstones illuminated
Whose entire picture turns into a whirling bird
Whose tiniest drawings make me cry
I am not even making myself