Two Poems

January 17, 2020



The Moose and All



The table edge is all that keeps my elbow's heat.

             Last winter a moose wandered from the mountain in 

                        to eat the neighbor's trees. Walking home: hoofprints. Snow 


quiet as an ankle bone. The difference is 

              freeways and I pay for these warm months, 

                         this tiny kitchen, but look


how brand new I am here saying I was just telling 

             so and so that, to prove something so 

                         and so I real: listening, talking, 


the scaffolded city. At the very least I am no longer afraid 

           I'll find a moose around the next corner. So here 

                       it is: It was snowing, and then it stopped; 


I was throwing my whole body 

           into it, scraping ice from the windshield, and now—well,

                       I'm not. I'm saying I didn't see it coming, okay,


none of it. These curbs, this sun, my hair long

             and disastrous thrown over my shoulder 

                        in the bar I like on 40th, and once


just laughing and laughing in the kitchen—you

            juggled lemons, dropping them all, and then gone, the moose 

                        huge and close in the old impossible night. 




Almost Glittering



In a square of light pulled onto the kitchen floor

I peel oranges and tell Kavanaugh to go

fuck himself


it’s nice here Oakland all golden

yarrow pot smoke the toe dent of a flip flop gathering


dew or leftover fog in the street Jesus Christ

Halle’s text says listening in

a rush toward something I’d rather be

not licking citrus picking lettuce off my knee maybe


a brain surgeon a cabinet maker someone’s

one night stand leaving earrings on the shelf instead but


you must go on unraveling into yourself


no matter who

can afford haircuts or healthcare Halle and I 

were laughing at billboards yesterday 

on our usual way to eat

sweet potato fries gossip and get side-eyed at the bar I mean wholly


hooting for miles our very own bodies our loose selves


what dumb luck then dumb luck now tuning Brett

out knuckles sticky in the sun a little

glittery almost or something





Emily Alexander eats food and lives in Idaho. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Hobart Pulp, On the Seawall, and Penn Review




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