Elisabeth Workman

Figure for the Effervescent Distance

you have come far away

you have come furrow—from retrograde to retrograde—fermentation its own form—of reproduction working with—a mother night—in the scandalous abundance—of drawing up the trash

take out you—& another I is the matter

there are folds &—folds & in their unseen—an alien warmth & thus—a nocturnal wandering

a fuzz of breath hovers

in the dark between faces & failure—I feel a ruffle—blood-stiff & heaving it clings

it is sticky eggy sooth it is molting it is snowing in my heart—in my heart opal dolphins are vomiting P.S.s in my heart it is fucked in my mouth perpetually being stuffed—with fluff & deathmeat—I cough up hatchlings—

they come out sopping—they come out super 8—they thank you everyone for coming out tonight—

my sap—my pusses—my cheeks burn in the archive—where I have inconveniently made a mess—& the city too is breaking

Nascent Figure

I want to fold—what you wrote—and keep it—warm—in my pocket—as a ritual—for remembering—en route—is where it’s at—I mean—where presence is—Jupiter is—and is not— the way of breath—that is not clipped—by the next—selfcare being—the most difficult starling—I mean—simple starting—murmur mediation—read eye of the year—the 16 candles— of our relationship—like a real teenager—teenager—anyone—animal parable of—love in the time of—that greedy widget—mob politic we—will talk about—students—we will clot—the valhalla with—our melancholy—prose an emergency—room’s fluoresce I—wanted to go—back into the back—room the door—opened on the—first room not—the same room—the room with the spoons—dipped in honey—always ready—for a guest we—talked about labor—our attachments—in the birth center—dream of an emergence room—that didn’t call check-in— triage—did not see—the fibers—nosing out—from the blind root—manifold in the compost— the red worms—gods—of the accordion universe

Figure Feeding Mantid*

*the night & the—recital break—down into small—pieces like—apples & leaves in—the maggot’s starry mouth

*enzyme about the baby green garden

*the long haul—luscious hell of it—prime numb—prim um—i’m—cadaverine and kaddish

*I miss—the slow pleasures—of our—proximity—their tender accumulations’ ’ ’ ’ ’ ’

*awareness—of objects—in your orbit—which books—for example—witch boots

*, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

*the detour—detours as—here—in my fatigues—I soften—at the thought—of a tiny—maggot (,)

*and here—in my sick—I feel—a squirming in my—solar plexus—break down

*a squirming about—my practiced—self-pity—as a distracted—way of being—a betrayal—of the hideously—adorable maggot

*the violets &—the gamut break—down

*my chevy nova—nova—no—va—& a—black hole—break down—but only one—is also— creative

*, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , m , y , , , d , e , s , i , r , e , , , , , , , , , , , , l , i , t , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , i , n , , , , , , t , h , e, , , , , p , r , o , m , i , s , c , u , i , t , y , , , , , , , o , f , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , t , h , e , , , , , , , , i , n , d , e , x , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

*o , u , r , , , p , o , r , o , u , s , , , c , h , o , r , d , s , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , the internet maybe , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , my desire lit , , , , b , y , , , t , h , e , , , h , e , a , t , , , o , f , , , a , m , b , i , e , n , t , , , h , o , u , n , d , s , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , c , i , r , c , u , l , a , r , , , s , o , u , n , d , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , asymmetrical wound

*, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

*the face—of the future—in the praying mantis—the one you—addressed after—returning from the—edge:

*who are you—king of the world?

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Elisabeth Workman is the author of the poetry books Ultramegaprairieland (Bloof Books) and Endlessness Is No Desolation (Dusie Press) and ten chapbooks. She lives with the snow and a small troupe of formidables in Minneapolis and in the disembodied realm here: elisabethworkman.com.