ABOUT THE FISHMONGER’S WIFE
Careless is a man shucking
brides like bait mussels––
to show such indiscretion,
to fatten so in these times.
Here is the image of a wife
in a thatched smokehouse––
she sleepwalks from fire
to fire, setting start again.
The little oily herring
come wrapped in paper,
whole, of course, or kippered,
or the headless bucklings.
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CARD
Your sunflower vase, a wedding gift,
slipped in my terrible hands.
I wish I weren’t scattered so.
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MIRJAM FROSTH is a Swedish-American poet, photographer, and free climber. She lives in Gainesville, Florida, near a very tall oak tree.
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Photography at The Tall Creative
He sang /
like a gas station on a black summer night.
you stand a long time /
by the creek, then /
feed it two pennies, /
one for you, one /
for the love /
inside you that /
you can do nothing /
with or about.
A talisman against the agony /
in his knees and hips //
for which he was taking /
black-market fentanyl
I greet your gliding flight O wings of death / But there are other signs too
realizing that the horizon is a line constituting an intersection between at least two systems, the inner and the outer one. Between an observer on the move and the roads within the landscape ...
the story / the two white women will not retract, despite the fact /
that inside each story we tell another writes itself
the intoxicating ministry of dusk, the anchor of daylight lifting, sheets white / like a freshly crushed pill, // the vortex of the body and the clap of the / coral tongue...
Before we go any further, I want to publicly acknowledge //
that I love every person in this room. I mean it. /
We’ve traveled from all over to be here, and I love /
each of you, all of you, every last one of you, except /
Harold
I tithe 10% of my new underwear to my future /
self, the one who has fallen in love.
Along one river fell /
all the luck in the world.
