Two Poems by Joan Tate

Canal II

Birds flew off the tip of
               Out taking a walk out
Taking waters birds flew off of
               Wings stiff as
If diseased or as if
Hallowed I couldn’t tell, O
Failed industrial backdrop, O
Gentrified mountain
               Leaves
A faltering kindof
               Wind
               Took my hair up in
My own hands I meant I thought
               I walked
I pretended
               They were yours
               Your birds I mean
Flying off like thumbs
Hitched together
Before the door of light
Shadow puppets
Bricks and all
               The public hues
Mostly teals and browns and firetruck reds
Mostly you kept them in view
               Under paraffin blankets
               Behind chain fences
Mostly broken
In the silo itself
Teal jars of water
Shreds of canvas
A burnt tire
You know what I meant
               And what I possessed
All of it rented from Frank O’Hara
               From Candy Darling
From Cindy Lee and Amiri Baraka
From Lynn Xu and Chris
From the memory silo
All plugged up with light, bandanas, smell
The awkward sound of rain

Nothing Was Meant To Be But Sometimes It’s Nice

You could make
A list of objects
To the side of the poem                              (abreast)
And that would be
The second verse
My name was
A. Geranium Laughing
Looks like my head                                       (a breast!)
Off to the side
Poem as position
Occupied for a couple flowers
Arthur’s friends said
As he was dying
He just kinda turned
Into his music
                                                                                (.)
                                                                                (.)
                                                                                (.)
All our dittoing murmurs
Winter included
Water included
The same five objects in my eyes
I’ve lost interest                                               (coffee, Lord,
In anything                                                         friend, book
But depth                                                            river, maybe
But Hi                                                                   cum)
My name was Current Kaleidescope
My name was Along For The Ride

Joan Tate is a poet, mystic, and transexual currently living in Great Falls, Massachusetts. Her work is published or forthcoming in places such as Prairie Schooner, Stone of Madness, b l u s h, Discount Guillotine, Imposter Review, Little Mirror, and more. She currently serves as a tour guide at the Dickinson museum. You can probably find her down by the canal or on instagram @JoantheLark.