Kimberly Grey Her I
once met a girl whose name rhymed with orange. She was all pronouns: Her You
She.
She took what was not beloved by her and smashed it. She believed nothing in the world
belonged not broken. At night, she’d kiss her pronouns, tuck them in beside her. There
are many variables in this equation. She is orange-like and her skin is made of citrus. She is almost the color
of fox, pumpkin, monarch butterfly. She is a constant she. A her
defined by the biggest riddle in words.
Once a man held her up to the light, told her she was like a sapphire, or a lieblicher blue. She
liked blue, knew it led to other things in the world – a bead of dew on the grass, a baby's shoe. Yesterday
she imagined she was silver. Today she thinks she hears an owl calling her name. Mathematics
Ghazal In
your measurable body I search for a number. By
night I find zero, everything becomes number. Twice
I’ve tried to add infinity to the length of two, what your
mouth forgot became a negative number. If
I subtract you tomorrow or today, you’ll just be added somewhere else,
become someone else’s number. I
can’t count the immensity of a lover when you’re gone. Each
cell unloved multiplies until it’s an incalculable number. Large
masses move to large masses like strangers to strange places. You
didn’t know this love would make you number? You
said One pretty, naked girl is worth a million statues. I wonder if I am the girl or the number.
Kimberly
Grey's poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in TriQuarterly,
Linebreak, New York Quarterly, The Awl, The
Brooklyn Review, and other journals. She lives in Queens, NY and will teach
contemporary poetry at Adelphi University in the spring. Her website is www.kimberlyMgrey.com . |
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