Potluck

 

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Two Poems


My Museum
 

I hold someone’s hand in the city
And repeat, “this is a dream abt birdwatching.”

I open up the first page of the book.
Somewhere, a woman very far away asks me:

“Shall I give my bird
A real beak or an orange one?”

Are you broken in a sense that
You can’t move, or that your body is slowly receding? 

This is a depressing book. 
All girls can decide for themselves.

I fold my legs into different positions,
Melting like a flower melts her

In all the movies. I realize 
The key factor of my body: 

I am just a container. This is 
A particular way of organizing.

 

 

 

 

A Song for a Mother 
 

In my throat is a song for a mother
Who has lost her eggs for no reason.

There’s a tradition and it’s sinking 
Like a public pool with yellow 

Umbrellas, invisible and a metaphor
For any kind of early death. 

This is one thing I believe. 
Women will be okay someday. 

Maybe we will train ourselves 
To sit comfortably and write declarations 

Of sadness for hours on end. 
My heart bleeds out of a funnel

That goes directly to another heart. 
I don’t know why. The dogs will run 

Around until there are no dogs. 
The fence wraps around the house

And then wraps around your waist.
The theory of why we live here

Has always and never
Been important to me.

 

 

 

Delia Rainey is a musician and a recent graduate of the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri, where she interned at The Missouri Review. Her poetry has been featured in Blacktop Passages, Lower Lip Zine, Cactus Heart, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and the upcoming issue of Pleiades.