ditch,

the poetry that matters

Robin Morrison

Robin Morrison is an undergraduate currently living in Iowa City with his wife and two kids.  He has had poems published (as Ray Succre) in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  His novels are widely available in print and (free of charge) online, as is  Other Cruel Things, a collection of poems first published by Differentia Press (2009).

The House of Baby

 

 

Cork lay chewed to bits near the mouth,

specks on the lips and chin.

 

This room, as if a flailing prawn,

gave off its recent discord from the baby.

 

Unpotted plant, the soil under his nails.

The books scattered, torn pages tiling

the floor—

 

The house woke each day and stretched.

The baby lived alone.  He set his table

with bent spoons and bibs,

his feet in decomposing heaps of toys.

A bottle of lapsed milk was featured wine.

 

Visitors came to sup and philosophize

the times.  They noted his shambles

and could follow his house-treks

from the wake of debris.

This specter of his path,

rambunctions wall to wall,

found its temporary vanish, and only one,

in the near soundless emanations of his

passed-out, late night breaths.

 

The visitors would let themselves out,

and talk over his progress, he was talking,

yes, and again the vivid house of baby

slept.

 

 

 

 

 

Happy 50th, Randy Cotton

 

 

On a hotel whiteboard, beneath

‘Thursday: Cod with white wine sauce’,

sidling a highway and above transient fluff

and lint in placed redwood bark,

atop night worms and trench eggers

all the world to ling, caught and strung

to the docks one block from the hotel

pantry, the sign, the lingcod special

with a sauce made from blanc, it’s headline

on the whiteboard, while the board’s

light is cancer to a 2nd floor room

where an isolated, pregnant woman forces

her image through a camera to the One,

across the crawls of a thousand miles,

to Arkadelphia, propped on electrons

and bits of lightblood, in wires

like unrolled twine between Dixies,

the cups still stained red from the juice,

from the ladle, the bowl, with dry ice

atop Randy Cotton’s 50th birthday

tablecloth, while the woman’s stomach

rolls from the fish and the baby,  her

rotund image in some portion cradling

that same spark that lights the hotel’s

black-lettered, whiteboard sign.

 

Mr. Cotton sips a drink, the woman snaps

a shot, and a filet is draped into a pan,

while people fluttering in cars pass in light

from the unnoticeable, flickering sign.

 

 

 

 

 

The Couple Enough

 

 

Who fallen-snow’s the hill in

blanketing lovesays,

and who elms the woods in

further hand holding,

who breaks their intricate tinder and

strikes a cephalous spark,

 

two halves of a sun in a bursting locket.

     Who-

a solitary cack from a woman in the ground,

turned to her first heart’s habit,

and a denizen’s tacking against the house,

turned on his own clover rampancy.

What else is confident as a

strong, carotid marriage?

 

Enough-

Who.

And verily kissed-

Who.

A whimsical tilting on

spitting, ribbon talks-

      unabashedly,

      crashingly,

who.

 

 

 

 

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