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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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