THREE POEMS
His face blown up into flakes encircling
My son, a dead house in which
He is sniffing glue through his glass
Blown skull, to flip off her moral septum
This bell the doctor stapled to your lung
Will protect my child who has stolen, so to
Stave off oral sepsis, our bell-steepled angel may
Remit above the bed from which my son was
Taken by the pent-up oral surgeon,
For fewer have been sold
I could lean on his holy
To ascend after being lowered
I know of a mountain where you go
The backfields he tends
with another
palm in earth white seed, she
doesn’t want to see the blade of
grass woven round his neck
by way of another’s
prayer
folded in the dirt
The window comes and goes
Scathed voice the face invisible
I mistake my son’s rash for water
His legs float up between the night and
My face in the mirror
A boy’s ball in the marsh floats above
Trees shot through the dirt car frame
The shade of her eyes
Skin untangled
Someone is being asked to leave on a horse
Like the river to be easy
CASSIE VOGEL is a writer and artist living in Rhode Island.