Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published, or is forthcoming, in Sixth Finch, DIAGRAM, Puerto del Sol, and
BathHouse Journal, among others. She has two chapbooks, Oyster (REALITY BEACH) and Compliance (Essay Press), and is events coordinator for YesYes Books.
midnight vigil for the slick
it has its own wandering path, my worry
for you and the things that may happen
when I say it, do you hear the clownish
danger I fear perches on your shoulder
following decisions you make, waiting to
bloom the clumsy touch of the body
against anything else, the mind assuming
one thing, stepping off the train platform
into oblivion and receiving, for all its pain
a few stitches and a six week cast
but to use the language of trust, we substitute
a sure thing for risk, this is not new
I ask you to find what you are not willing
to lose, and in so doing, flash my hand
can I poison the pest without poisoning
the next rung predator? my foot in the door
my brush craving the work of 100 strokes
before bed, if not in the hair, then on
the ass? find your worst self
did I mention doctors? them too
I’d like to say the choice of ochre in design
was purposeful, the walls, the bedspread
the burning drapes in the burning home
I’d say, also, that I’m winning my war
against the slugs, but I can’t kill them
can’t even leave out saucers of beer
for them to kill themselves
holy yolk
god of jacob the wind in triangle
medallion earrings
sounds like stripping your birthright
when you had two fingers up the Russian
in the backseat of your truck
a golden hairy thing
the sound of the spirit
is this: leaving, naked
a microcosm, holy yolk
under the white half moons
of your untrimmed fingernails