THE END OF WRITING

It would be so intimate to show you my house

No, it would be just hospitable.

They do not know I am beautiful now

Globe fatter and flakier 

Winter pea: I am upset                    I could not be with your child 

You get new to me

You get new-me to name every line

On the topmost hill a brush of rabbits

No, of lenient grey leaves...

Amid a depression of grasses

Winged angels

The waves abrupt with gems

Against the cliff our first picture

I can see in it among other things my virginity 

The table looks a ship this way at night  

I do know what "feminist writing" is 

The administrator of it knows, too

His soft hairs assemble about

The side effects of the poem.

Only there did I see you 

And you were well documented 

Privately, and I think you are pretty

I hoard stems and petals                    the night makes faces at us

I write a complex code 

You say it flaunts my infection though also my brain

This is how I know I have failed

In Heaven, understanding is synonymous with faith

Faith is so gay these days

As is the beach 

Tumbling lagoon stones for sport

No, "sport" I mean as Plato would say 

The ugly virtue of human systemization

The thinnest snow has started now                    I stay sick with nausea

The little flowers and I think of you

I think of you near and like I think a gull 

Nearer even now, little ringlets aside your ears

--

from Issue 4 of Little Mirror Mag

Read more here

--

Born in California, Scout Turkel is a poet and writer. Scout's first book, Solitude and Society, is forthcoming from Nightboat Books. With Samira Abed and Hannah Piette, Scout edits the journal Common Place: A Seasonal Publication of Poetry & Poetics.