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Two poems by MONICA KOENIG

Little Hells


The door to the field
slamming open
means I’ve held this
weather in. I must
attend to what pleasures
are left
if any.
Behind the house
a man stands over
a thundering.
You are the man
filling my trees
with little hells.
Call back
your winter
so I can number
the excellent dark skies
in acres. 


  

162  The Paris-American

Hyperphagia


I have knelt at
the roadside taking it
into my mouth
           the poisonous sumac
           beating my lungs

           together as wings.

           What if I come 

           to a stand of pines.
                       There is a bear
                       made of the faces
                       of every man I’ve known.

The bear can give me anything
I want but all I can have
is a skeleton made of trees
the lungs sunk
           meadow grass flat
           from a bedded down 

           animal.

  

163  The Paris-American

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Monica Koenig holds an MFA from the University of Colorado. Her poems have appeared in the Tulane Review and Roar Magazine. Monica lives, writes, and works in the high Rockies.  



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