The doorway
The outermost whorl of a flower that encloses the bud is known as a calyx. The ground was dry but the river was everywhere. She paraded down the street, a beribboned pony at the fair. In the evening I scrape the dead leaves and dew from my hair and climb under the waves. In this quietude I sense the drift of time as it slips out of your mouth. Consider that not everything follows a formula. The arithmetic of the sun grazing your cheek and lighting the top of your thigh. Peel back the hours and see that minutes are elliptical. I showed you a photograph of myself on vacation. It stuck with you like grief in the lungs. Re-assembling things you had forgot about, you included my face but not the fractal treeline. As I am lit by the lamp, so are you. Nothing is sure. Everything is tomorrow.
The table
after lasagna we yawn
over our dirty utensils,
covering our mouths so
things to do not spill.
a hand reaches for a cup
with a side eye: spill.
The garden
I am trying to be a good anarchist
about the aphids that have overtaken
my once gorgeous kale. Who have gorged
themselves unceremoniously despite
my best efforts with the castile soap
and vinegar. Which in turn ended up
browning the leaves and making them
bitter anyway. I should have left it well
alone. Who am I to say that my desire
supersedes the needs of tiny ashy grey
specks? Shouldn’t they be allowed to suck
the kale dry as I step barefoot through
composted shit to feel more alive?
The easel
spark. dot dot line. indigo wiggle, a dreamland.
that speck a pink heart, that line a leg. no hands.
dandelion seed. cloud. impossibly large mouth.
unironic happy face. the threat of rain.
Kate Siklosi’s [photo credit: Jesse Pajuäär] work includes Selvage (Invisible 2023), leavings (Timglaset 2021), and six chapbooks of poetry. Her critical and creative work has also been featured across North America, Europe, and the UK. She also curates the Small Press Map of Canada and is co-founding editor of Gap Riot Press.
