Poem Beginning with Pascal’s Vases
In this poem, I am gratitude. You are the chirp of a cicada
seventeen years in the offing. In this poem, you fill me
the way water fills anything: perfectly and without remorse.
In this poem, I am hanging the sky with lemons
wrung free of their lemon-ness, and you blink once,
twice, to remind me that everything sweet must start somewhere.
here I am open as a fist again sucking Reddi-wip from the can
cat purring idly against my thigh hairy texts
come in from a man who loves me and I don’t know which one this is
the good one or the bad the first ingredient cream
I’ve built a life among strangers like everyone new does
open as a fig a wound curdling under moonlight
a mistake made is a finished thing but mine are a work in progress
shouldn’t something sour be orange at least
yellow tell me what you think the last is nitrous
Ashley Kunsa‘s creative work appears in or is forthcoming from more than forty venues including The Writer magazine, Blue Mesa Review, Sycamore Review, and the Los Angeles Review. She is assistant professor of creative writing at Rocky Mountain College in Billings, MT, where she lives with her husband and two children. You can find her online at www.ashleykunsa.com.