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
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
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
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.
