Bobby Parrott

When I Get to Lick the Moon

hummingbirds disjointed and fragmented
in a strobe light see colors we can’t hear

and lambs, coiling bits of cloud fallen to earth
quiet my headache’s electric lobster spines

like a rosebud eases ennui, rehearses instability
in agricultures of infra-red, a noun phrase

loneliness models, the carnival of our dog barking  
across beams of sound, that screech of light

when bee girl finds the garden of dancing bee-people
and a poem sees us thru both sides of the page.

Whitman with his post-Freudian smoking popsicle
flowers in a jewel-box sex craze I place in orbit

to hover at the border of how I become you inside,
your face’s flower an aperture thru which I taste

our kiss. We say first time absurdities in a vocabulary
of cherries, scriptural amphibians sequined

by lunar texture, scratch of sunlit tongue, nostrils
powdered with incense of spent firecracker.


Little Boat Running Over (an aubade)

How like children as we love
                  under our thatch of starlight, filtered
                                    through our mother’s ghost, a cooling

iridescent milk. We the moon-blue
                  horizon behind the portal of her eyes—
                                    Soft! We’ll not awaken today at any rate;

let tomorrow lie as night ungods us
                  from that bramble-stoked light storm
                                    morning. Hymen’s dawn cap draws in

from this devouring a round mouth
                  fused by untutored tongue, ground 
                                    undone in the mushroom crush of Pan,

flippant boy of kaleidoscope earth’s
                  fractal burn. Elixir of toadstool drunk
                                    from hellflower stamen. Moon moths flex

in these branches of Neverland. We eat
                  the hunger of its tall suns, flame down
                                    and gnash our baby teeth against the day

to feed from the cups of smaller hands.
                  Let grown-ups fly jets, take prisoners
                                    while we swim the laurel of her hair, weave

its tinseled strands, cry aloud— Parent me!
                  Spin us, emerald fish in your cavern, lest we
                                    flutter our fins into sunlight and die for good.

© Bobby Parrott

Bobby Parrott‘s poems appear in Tilted House, RHINO, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Atticus Review, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, and elsewhere. Wearing a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, this writer, originally from Maryland, dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado.

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