a second sneak peek

Two poems by Betsy Wheeler from the inaugural issue of spoKe:



You have too many dwellings.

You call all buildings “houses.”


I come to you smelling

of coffee and thyme.


Your breathing form.

Your thinking lungs.


Your body-soft body,

Our accident, our heart


a red mouse trapped

in a smooth bell-jar.


Cry me a tiny baby

a tiny baby cries.


Climbing the Fortress

My armies converge in the distant hills.


It rains and it rains.


The grass a telephone to god, I rub my feet in the wet of her leaves, saying:


Don’t trust me;

I wear acorn tops like helmets,

all morning burn sticks.

I run out to that wall and back from that wall.


The trees, weighted down inches by the storm, do their little shaking thing again.


One rocket flares, the sky going mossy,

and, depending how you look at it,

ends or begins.


I beg to be flattened.

I yearn for destruction.

Tell me it’s coming.

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