Lisa Ciccarello

from Don’t be like that.

From behind the tree you can see her mouth. She can see you & the mouth says help me. You could. There is a basket, a blanket, a skirt.

You think of the field stripped beneath the power lines. You return with scissors.

A light shines on slices of wood. A light shines when you shut the door. You use the branch to cover the mouth.

*
& the blanket spread beneath them. Truly, they don’t know yet what they are weeping for. The sound of stone on skull is like a kind of crying: everyone closes their eyes.

He puts a chocolate in each hand, loose but useless. When he looks at them, he sees himself.

It was bound to happen, you know. It was only natural.

*
They are going to lie a long time now.

What you’ve done so far, you’ve only done to their bodies. They have one last place left in them to reveal to you. Little by little they remove the dress of your grip.

They do not go very far.

Bio: Lisa Ciccarello’s first book of poems, At night, is forthcoming from Black Ocean. She’s the author of several chapbooks, including Worth Is the Wrong Word, recently out on Black Cake Records. Her poems have appeared in Tin House, Denver Quarterly, PEN Poetry Series, Handsome, Poor Claudia & Corduroy Mtn., among others. She edits poetry at draft: The Journal of Process.