Two Poems
by Genevieve Kersten
Vows
You will grow to dread the way I call your name,
and I will understand why.
Your name in my throat is cracked glass,
sandpaper,
beige rainbow,
broom swish
while I’m face down on the floor.
Your reply will always be chenille.
Where are you? Tell me.
My answer will be a map with no legend.
The way I will use you as a distress beacon is unfair,
and I will never stop,
because once I discover help
is a two-syllable word shaped like you,
your name becomes my whole vocabulary.
When I’m pillow-smothered,
it floats in violent down feathers.
When I drown in gurgles,
it shortens, becomes air.
Your name will be my last remaining flare,
spark and smoke, arcing across the sky,
above all the disasters I create.
Odontophobia
The weekend with the toothache
my finger traces silhouettes
in the popcorn ceiling.
I ask you to occupy my cavity
enormous emptiness.
We both know it’s not a fair request.
There’s a story I loved when I was small,
about the fox with the broken tooth and
the duty bound mouse-dentist.
Gentleness and care are not enough.
Some wounds require pliers, stiff gauze,
and more than I could ever give.
In the end, you will have to glue my teeth
together to make sure I don’t devour you.
Genevieve Kersten is a poet, romance writer, and professional semi-finalist. She is co-founder and poetry editor at Okay Donkey. Her poetry has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Hypertrophic Literary, 8 Poems Journal, The Feckless Cunt Anthology, and Helen: A Literary Magazine among others. She lives in Los Angeles with her partner, and tweets at @joieduhvieve.
