Leah Potyondy
Odd
Market
North market, West market—
Toys to hang
And toys to rest.
Crucifixes for street children hanging out
Curbside, looking dazed and murmuring
Latin sonnets for the masses up until the law
Nails them again, begging for
The bullwhips of prophets, likewise hung,
In the secret corners where all the virgins
Hid their pornography before
The inquisition.
South market, East market—
A bridle for a twelve year old boy and boys to match.
Cadavers for marionettes but hey,
We’re all dolls anyway,
Centerpieces for somebody’s mantel and photographs
We have,
But wouldn’t you rather own
The real thing?
Old market, New market,
Look what we have here, my love.
They’re selling your mother’s head half-off and it’s a good
deal
Any way you cut it,
A masterpiece in found poetry or a
Tin-foil nightmare to forget once you turn your back
And anyway…
She’ll never see from her crushed-firefly eyes
Who it was
That ruined her princess.
But still, it was me, oh that it was me who took your body,
Revised and cut for sale in East market,
Motherless, fatherless,
And why would you desire to live
As you were? When I could
Remake you, rebuild you, replace your parts
With oddities…
Patchwork daughter,
Beautiful, twisted prince,
Do you know the place where they smash the faces of angels
And lead the damned into paradise?
A Song From the Choir of the
Dead
I’ll give you a song
From the ashes of
snowflakes,
Corpse-fires for white
roses,
The bare bones of the
rain.
And I saw you eating his
flesh
In the moonlight,
In seraphin twilight,
You kissed your dead
son.
Where are you going,
Sweet child of dust?
I can see the clay split from the
quartz
Of your lips.
And the mouths of the chorus
scream “Alleluia!”
From the rime-rusted
river
In the throat of the
earth.
(And I’ll give you a
song
From the flesh of their
sighs,
Altar boys twisted and broken for
you…
For I caught you slitting his
mask
In the moonlight,
His face in the
twilight,
Your lovely dead son.)
So walking on eggshells and
butterfly shreds,
You pocket your razors
And wires
And silk.
And you know your boy’s
waiting
In the salt and the
ice
For your needles to tie off the
twine
In his heart.
And I’ll give you a song strung
from blood pearls
And lace,
From atropine jade
And the feathers of
dusk.
And I saw you ruin a
prince
In the moonlight,
In sepulchral
twilight,
You loved your dead
son.
Chaser
It chases like butterflies after
vodka,
And it chases like vodka after
blood,
Like the cadence of a heartbeat
pushing impulse
Down nerve-threads
Dilating and cracking across the
surfaces
Of eyelids.
And it chases like Alice after
the creases that reality left in her skin
When she woke up,
After red and white
oblivion,
Like marbles after a downward
spiral
And it chases
Like wolves after
ravens,
Like hawks after
hounds,
Like knives after agony and
morning
And mourning
And it chases like black
umbrellas over storm clouds while little girls
Hide their faces under thin,
shapeless gauze and pretend like they’re crying
Just so they can say
That they cared to stand out in
the rain while a priest the color of
The end of the world
Prayed to sobbing deities and
laid to rest the broken pieces
Of their mothers
In an infant earth
Still shooting up
teeth.
And it chases like memories of
pall and memories
Of sex,
Like sex after death,
Like memories running down the
groove in the center of a letter opener
Shaped
Like the sword of King
Richard,
Like words and sounds that you
know you’ve heard before
In pale voices
Under the bedroom
door,
And it chases like blood after
honor and it chases
Like ghosts after deacons and it
chases
Like liars after dreams, after
saints, after rainfall,
Like fools after origami
cranes,
Like marble statues playing tag
in the garden just before
You blink.
Leah
Potyondy is a product of Massachusetts and New Jersey by way of
New York State and Japan. She has a BA in Japanese Studies, a
webcomic, a terrible sense of humor, and a cat who hates her.
She has been writing, in some form or another, since the age of
five, and will likely continue to do so until she rolls over
and dies. Her poetry has appeared in "The Dream People" and the
now (apparently) defunct "Gothic Fairytales for Melancholy
Children" under the name "Anyel Alexander
Potyondy."
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