the poetry that matters

Kat Dixon

Kat Dixon is poetry editor of Divine Dirt Quarterly and author of three chapbooks: Kississippi (Gold Wake Press), Planetary Mass (Dancing Girl Press), & Don't Go Fish (Maverick Duck Press).  Her work is collected with bows at katdixon.weebly.com.


Hummingbird :: with peaches in the bloodstream
if we keep our hands together, we
can escape into womanhood as one
does into tentacles,
a stuttered exactitude of a ringing telephone.
i can keep you, maybe, for
an over the counter wedding
some summer noon –
or rather, in a way that undoes mess, i can
keep you in midday for a lip to lip dialogue
on the varied ways to say i’m sorry without
opening the skin.
at rush hour, though, all bets are off.

Mockingbird :: who consistently shies away from practicality
Call me separation; call me oven
It is eleven o’clock there is no need to leave our beds.
On the up stair, someone said –
(repeat please)
On the down stair, wore springtime
in a strapless bra.
Behind what was once a tree but is now
a tree
with / different / dimensions,    call
                                                                me purposed asymmetry.
It is two o’clock there is no need to leave our beds.

Robin :: thickest ‘round the middle night
sing – sing a virus:
sing the great fear of what will fall
out if the body is not kept
perma sealed                    (a more permanent
spring)  :  sing pollen (pollen!) –
a kind of sound that means sexual
oppression (if you are not listening); how it embeds
itself beneath the underfeathers; how it wrenches
open the beak  :  sing
(quick!) before sunrise, before
the blushing ‘round the throat,
before – and then again –
sing:  you’ll be who you are, only three
degrees south and unbuttoned


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