Eyes Without a Face
Cemeteries make the best walks and people
who mark days in dollars own fur-lined hind legs.
They are craven kids who lick the words off headstones
that wave hello back to kind gestures.
I still want to be your girl, Mr. Centaur, who
persuaded the ocean to return the virtual again.
That is, what never was, that was, wants never again.
From a very close distance, touch the woman
with eyes like marbles, stroke her hindquarters
and swallowed speech in order to voyeur
like no one’s tomorrow. None of us are tomorrow;
we ignore the graves, limning their faces only.
I cannot be unseen without them; you cannot exhibit
without calling their names in lyrics.
If you believe a murder successful, you can’t call to being.
The proof is not sunshine. The comfort of shadows
is not my first friend. I am a philosophy,
wanting aloud the part-time lover inside me.
I am eyes apart, held together by a skin bag.
I see the familiar species, you weeping as one within us.
Of her most recent book from Litmus Press, I Want to Make You Safe, John Ashbery described Amy King‘s poems as bringing “abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living.” Safe was one of the Boston Globe’s Best Poetry Books of 2011. The Missing Museum is forthcoming in 2014 from Kore Press. King also teaches English & Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College and works with VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.