New Poetry by J.J. Starr
Concerning whether or not I am a horse
I strap torso & press arms
to diaphragm with breath
deep the distressed
voice of mistress
mumbles wishes
amid plum trees
& white headlight
bum-rushes the alleyway—
Am I a horse
kicking at its leathers?
How many full rides & how should I count?
Thought made in moonlight appearing
cogent, succinct behind glass
what makes a full ride?
Pulling hard & pulling harder, making iron
break soil, dancing in dirt, hooves
wet, mane draping the strength of a neck—
Am I
if no bit made better a turning
head? No harm but tightened
hips? & if my breast hardened by use?
My rump sheened in sunlight
Am I a horse?
Many hands have made my length
& I’ve never been bought.
Many hands have made
my length. Many hands.
God Between Us & All Harm
Lighted hallway, delighted guest,
the television the
lens of it, lends itself to you.
Trump again, brackish, weighted
eyes dilated, throat-moaning
“The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.”
Beleaguered, who can even remember a face
these days? My grandfather used to say things
like you can drown in a teacup of water
if you fall right. He was gladly on his way out.
Sometimes I see his point:
LSU live tiger-mascot dies of cancer at age eleven
his empty cage strewn with flowers, paper cards
a student says, “”nobody else had a live tiger.”
company shares tumble by 8%
top of the news feed
taking so much light
I’ve forgotten there’s war in Ukraine •
Afghanistan • Iraq • Nigeria • Cameroon • Niger •
Chad • Syria • Turkey • Somalia • Kenya • Ethiopia •
Libya • Yemen • Saudi Arabia • Egypt • India • Iran •
Myanmar • Thailand • Israel • Palestine • Philippines •
Colombia • Armenia • Azerbaijan • China • Bangladesh •
DRC • Algeria • Tunisia • Burundi • Russia • Mali •
Angola • Peru • Lebanon • Mozambique •
where &
& where else?
L asks what I think of the song
Listening with ears pricked upon
to Young Thug’s Wyclef Jean
I cannot be sure where I meet it
when he says let me put it
& I think of course not—but then
fingering the hem of my skirt
do I reject his desire to squirt
his cum on my face slick as a ghost
because I’m honestly or dishonestly
deposed? I want my skin touched—
perhaps it’s how he asks,
telling me to deny my desire to bask
In the wet filth & become
part perversion myself. Because it was me
that morning who told
my beloved to do it & yes, I did want
kneeling deep in the tub looking up
all my skin like a socket, drooling mouth
blossomed, filled like a pocket.
L said to me, You don’t think
about the implication, the intention.
I said, I don’t think
of the gesture as blind contravention
or anything more than body & mess
upon mess in the deluge of sex. I confessed
I want to be seen as a canvass.
She said, I don’t want to be mean,
with the swat of her hand, but
he’s no Jackson Pollack.