Horse Less Press

The Heir

The heir raspberries
right in my face.
The heir digs around
in his diaper.
The heir was thought
to have been born tongue-tied;
it is assumed he has never
experienced authentic passion,
though he is inclined
toward ambition for rank
and position.
I wanna touch your nurses, he says,
his disagreeable qualities
invisible to the heir.

my lie is a pretty cradle

 my lie is a pretty cradle

my lie with the weepies
my lie with the wantons

lie down, certainly, for a
minute       (“that’s a pretty
little cradle”) my lie is a

line of ants
neither charted
nor chested

no certainty
for a spot, a given
to save it

ingested it
for later, for me
& for my lie

Deep

I’m a weeping weapon.
I’m a butt catcher.
You’re a butt holder.
I’m nuffin. You’re Griselda.
You’re Danny. Shut it
Danny! You’re Warren.
This tank top
w/ the built-in cups—
I’m while. I’m dry
wailing piles.
Spirit animal
be a houseplant
dry in the dirt.
Have you seen me?
Practicing my sleep moves?
Rub your yucky
little wart foot on my leg,
make me look
at your hangnail.
Tell me about how V died.
Tell me bout when you dived!
I didn’t die, honey, I—
Did he go to hospital?
Did he have bloody nose?
Fleshy bracts I pull
you off all air and woo—
B dived.
Yes, she did. B dove.
She dove. I can fit
a whole stuffie in each cup
here’s Beastie, here’s Teddy
look at this rack
stacked deep!
I’m gonna dive
long time
feel wet in here

*

Ellen Welcker has poems collected in the chapbooks Mouth That Tastes of Gasoline (alice blue, 2014) and The Urban Lightwing Professionals (H_NGM_N, 2011), and a book called The Botanical Garden (astrophil press, 20010) to her name. She lives in Spokane, WA.