AB Gorham – 3 poems


Regarding Time

The mind’s not a camera don’t take the photo                  black & white
              it won’t color without you         you clap into a frame     shutter-mouth

you consume landscapes a view in squares                       vision broken into geometry
the modernists employed           Figure through a window                       soft blur behind glass
you cut out that edge               thought right-angled           hardly waver, but they can cave—

              I too will cave                           having gathered plush                into a series of boxes
something either happens          or it hopes to                            the photo a belch, an operatic
awe held out                             stuns time into islands                memories, but I lose the map

never the same route twice       water shifts fanciful, bored                 inside me, no organ still
        brain a sponge squeezed into understanding                     I’m residue, counter-stable
evaporating: I separate the voices                       just as they begin to brawl
                                                                                          push them back into respective corners

               Invite the plants up        know they won’t arrive     forgive them their immobility
forgive me I lack the facts            hulk beneath my excuses                       long enough
           they no longer suspect                 I slip out from beneath            & torch the blankets



There is much to be given         much to be given
                there is much to be given to those who take

I’ve found a penny tails-up                     I’ve found
              a penny tails-up how unlucky

In the exchange no one wants the pennies
                I’ll pocket them

If a man hangs
If a man hangs from a ceiling
If a man hangs up
If a woman hangs a man
If hanging
If a man’s head hangs in the air
If the man’s head lands face down
If the man’s face smacks the concrete
If the man’s face smacks of the human

Charity calls & I should answer
Charity calls herself a Saint


Horizon at boil

vision’s green fabric waves out in front of me                 silk field silt-polished
              whatever rides the wind                                    brushes passed
brushes against a past
                                                         segmented self
                                                         a new room for each mood
Myself in spoonfuls
& when there are portions                                 we need wood doors or membranes

                            it feels good to slip through
release the pressure on one side of the door
               increase the warm pressure on the other

                                                                                       when I walk out
                                                                                       when they deliver food
                             I’m always accompanied
                                                          in here                          forced duet
                                                                                                along the circular hallways


I’ve memorized the curvature of this room
                             imagine the plaster coated in patina
                             will it into porcelain
                                                                                       my expensive delicate walls
                in this confined body space
                                             veins bulge from the backs of my hands
                I grab onto my shoulders
                crabs clinging to my shoulders
                                              their shells’ weight’s nothing compared to my bones


rubber band around my thumb
                blue-black bulges around the dam
                what the tip can tell the whole arm        the brain

                              what the tip relays is too much
                             a yes                 I’m sculpting


that field lamb will soon lose its tail
              it runs around not feeling the wagging

                                                                         but the dog too happy with the tail whip
                                                  the tip keeps breaking open                   tiny blood spout

                                                                  they’ll take it off                       they give a nub back
                                                  the dog will not feel any less excited


AB Gorham’s originally from Montana, but currently lives in Tuscaloosa where she’s an MFA candidate and the poetry editor for Black Warrior Review. Her poems are published or forthcoming at DIAGRAM, Gulf Coast, Cutbank, The Offending Adam, & Front Porch, among others.


About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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