Karen Rigby

Why My Poems Turn Forensic

Half of reverence is getting the names right.
So a petal is never a petal, but an origami dove
inside the Holy Ghost orchid. Commitment
is the other half: Dita in pasties
swiveling in an oversized martini
for her burlesque act. I never write
without measuring, each line
hooking a quicksilver hunger.
For precision take the delayed axel,
each phase of a Grand Prix gala jump.
Or Mizutani scissors in the hand of my stylist,
knuckles tattooed STAY GOLD.
For lack of picture a border cop
who asked a dealer about weapons,
said cuchara (spoon) instead of cuchillo (knife).
I can’t abide the uncarved poem. Give me a jade roan
saddled up. Don’t be the rifle, but wilderness
glanced through the bull’s eye.

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Karen Rigby is the author of Chinoiserie (Ahsahta Press). New work is forthcoming in Poetry Northwest and Southern Humanities Review. www.karenrigby.com