Two Poems

Kathryn Hunt

GEOGRAPHY

So unlike hers, the body of the belovéd,
strange, almost, with its mineral coves
and wild green bells, its secrets
hovering in the pelagic night.

All day with his tools,
shaping enclosures, sealing out rain
and the low moaning wind.
Above the heart the tender clavicle dancing.

In the valleys of the hand,
the fragrance of mushrooms,
tang of iron and of leaves. In the warm
pool of the mouth, the years spinning away.

And the loins, ropes to the ever after,
fire falling into the dark. The shy penis
with its nostalgia, its humble to-and-froing,
its compensatory swagger. Only the blue eyes,

their fevers and their questions, desire
the world more. So unlike hers, the body
of the belovéd. Strange, almost,
with its mineral coves.

TAKE TWO AT NIGHT FOR PAIN

They scream at me in German

Hip joints, shoulder joints. Narrow alleys
through which my entire life has passed.

Messengers from the future.

The tender wrists
once as purposeful and willing
as new buckets.

The knees shouting, Sit down. No,
stand up. Don't dare
kneel among the strawberries.

Intimate as an old friend
calling from the other side of the country.
See you there.

The moon-faced knuckles insisting
I let go my grip. Milk-blue cups,
your palms. Bend, drink.

Kathryn Hunt

I live in the village of Port Townsend, on the northwest coast of Washington. My poems have appeared in Rattle, The Sun, and Open Spaces, among other magazines. I earn my living as a freelance writer. When I'm not at my desk I can be found in my garden, trying to stay ahead of the weeds and the deer.

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