Two Poems by Philip Schaefer
You are not the wolf’s red eyes
slowly swelling into asteroids.
Not the foam leaking out
like twin lakes from either side
of its face. You aren’t the mountain,
white-capped fur, growing quietly
from its nape. There are windows
the dead crawl through with flowers
in their teeth. Languages glued
to the lining in our brains
that we never use. Here’s a fact:
you are the rabid tongue, the cuss
and the body it echoes from. You,
you wear fire around your hand
like a kidnapped child. You lick
sugar as if it were a cow’s split skull.
The horizon between us is walkable.
Only one of us will sleep tonight.
I want my coffin
to be lined
with the brass
songs of feral cats
sills at night,
Line it tuxedo
black so the red
flowers can rouge
into my skin.
Let the needle
of my tongue
split like a violin
tossed into a river.
Let my hands particle
into moth wings
resting over yarn.
Pretend my chest
is a harpsichord.
A mouth curling up
Philip Schaefer is the author of three chapbooks. [Hideous] Miraculous is forthcoming from BOAAT Press, while Radio Silence (forthcoming 2016 from Black Lawrence Press) and Smokes Tones (available from Phantom Limb) were co-written with poet Jeff Whitney. Individual work is out or due out in Vinyl, The Cincinnati Review, Prelude, Forklift Ohio, DIAGRAM, Sonora Review, H_NGM_N, cream city, Columbia Poetry Review and Hayden’s Ferry among others. He tends bar at a craft distillery in Missoula, where he received his MFA from the University of Montana.
Tags: [Hideous] Miraculous, Acoustics, Lost Horizons, Philip Schaefer, Poetry, Radio Silence, Smokes Tones