Two poems by Amie Whittemore

Autumn House Press, 2024, 88 pp.

Another Queer Love Poem that Fails to Change Anything

                  Middletown, CA

The air tastes like smoke—
so does my heart.

                               A blue bunting flits by.
                               On the window ledge

of this rented house,
two peaches from a poet’s tree.

                               I am on an adventure.
                               I am far from home.

And my love, this love—
with whom I’ve had only

                               a sliver of days, whom I
                               left again just yesterday,

is a swath of lavender.
I’m a bachelor bee longing

                               to sleep in her scent.
                               Outside, stricken mountains

wear their harrowing blond
hair, spiked with burnt trees.

                               Yesterday’s ocean dries
                               from my sandals, its sand

still glittering her hair.
I didn’t kiss her.

                               Ash thickens the sky.
                               The poet told me

a blackberry varietal
subtracted of thorns

                               lost its sweetness—
                               this is desire’s math.

I know. Which is why
I’ll let those peaches ripen

                               too long until so easily
                               bruised it’ll be impossible

to tell what tasted them first—
my lips or her thumb.

 

Hunter’s Moon

Walking below your near fullness, the fullness
               of life overtakes me—streetlights

wink off as if masking up. Starlings cascade.
               Even in a pandemic there is so much

beauty. What to make of these forty years?
               Moon, I have wanted most

to be brave and need nothing—I have wanted
               to be someone else. Like you,

I try to hunt everything at once. Like you,
               part of me is always turned away.

For once, I don’t want to call love a feral cat;
               I want to forgive myself the way water

forgives everything. I don’t know what kind
               of animal you stalk, but maybe

my hands can be as true as your stone.
               Maybe the work is always reflecting—

tell me, who needs me
               to show them how beautiful they are?

✶✶✶✶

Amie Whittemore (she/her) is the author of the poetry collections Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press), Star-tent: A Triptych (Tolsun Books), and Nest of Matches (Autumn House, 2024). She was the 2020-2021 Poet Laureate of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and an Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellow. Her poems have won multiple awards, including a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Prize, and her poems and prose have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Nashville Review, Smartish Pace, Pleiades, and elsewhere. She teaches creative writing at Eastern Illinois University and serves as director of MTSU Write, a from-home creative writing mentorship program. Learn more at amiewhittemore.com.

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