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Kyle Wade Grove

  

Love and Entropy

hers, to use the word loosely, hers
is to turn cat food into hair. leaping to the mantle
with absurd grace, she owns that artifice with her feet
as easily as we stroll along the god-given ground. blink, and you
would miss the hair-trigger twitch where her toes shook,
the motion of secret ballerina bones hidden deep in her meat.
brush her off, and she rights herself with preternatural ease,
contorting like a Rubik's cube she solves just before the floor.
so nimble as she navigates our maze, delicately thrashing through
the furniture, no gimble numbers or mathematic brain,
but just island hopping tables and chairs,
thunder-quick trigonometry to beat a path to my lap. to do it all, then
rest
there so demure, cradled in my denim crotch, she starts to purr,
like reverted to the womb, her moan so sonorous and husky,
like an idled diesel's sensous drone, the sexual climb
of feline electricity,
her body arching like magnetized with needle strokes. sexless,
though, fixed.
as they say, but spayed or unspayed her tail hits true north
like a scorpion's question mark, and still you have to wonder where
the jaguar went, or jungle-cat, this desuetude predator done dumb
and declawed in the stranglehold of no struggle. this once-killer
petted and fed until it was born half-dead, begging kibble because
an eon laid on its hands, and how subtly it came to this, a deity
done to dust by an infinifold of monk's kisses.

  

  

June 1st, Middleburg Cemetery

a tomb is just a tank of pirate meats,
sunk in a dirt ocean. all around us here,
every tree in hot bloom with barrowed carbon.
the stack of cut flowers, a small flag's silk galaxy,
the careful wreathes of evergreen,
all selling their afterlife
with circles and stars, all unraveling in eon time,
adorn a granite gravestone whose name unwrites itself in the wind.

all that pomp and ceremony gone like gunsmoke,
wafted nowhere like an acrid cloud of sulfur, that certain
cathartic crack of rifle fire.

the gentle rolling hills, the death-fed shade,
and all these gravestones jutting up like headboards,
upstuck periscopes. here be interred our statueesque flesh
in all its sunday best, in these hermetic arcs of chrome,

steel eggs in a death nest.

  

  

Snorkeling in the Rock Quarry

mosquito song and the soonset sun's pink
plays on pseudopond, who glows with eerie calm
unfitting this once-rockpit, the corpse of a quarry
choked in water and weed. the water that goes from
pisswarm to ice cubes in zero flat.

after first dive I beg for buoyancy, this body bowed
to the fluid flowing over. treading water only wearies
you of wind, the struggle is to stop struggle, chamber
the calm in your chest.

teeth tight on snorkel, I bite back
the burst urge for original oxygen, accept the
umbilical like a bridle as I draw
breaths deep and calm through
this rubber doubling my windpipe like

periscope of air,
a footlong line of prayer.

   

Kyle Wade Grove is a poet operating out of rural Ohio, 24 years young. His publications have landed in, perhaps miraculously, in The Wittenberg Review of Arts and Literature, Stirring, The Birmingham Review of Arts and Literature, and The Cortland Review. He is studying, currently, at Ohio University, working on an MA in Applied Linguistics.
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