Marina Leigh
—
Ain't My First Rodeo
I am very difficult / to kill / spine of sea / urchin belly of lamb’s / ear belly of parsley / tea to let the blood out / let the moth out throw / the windows open throw / fist to jaw teeth / to shooting star / this is what it means / to be a cowboy / keep your hat / low in between this ocean / & the last / is you / cowboy black / coffee-stained mouth mouth / of cupid cupid / do you take suggestions / I’m sexually attracted to / fishermen I don’t belong / to the desert / saltwater’s sloshing through me / trying to tell me something trying / to name my mother / after my child & / my grandmother / after me / turn my child into more / than river more than alleyway / & smoke sweet / as rotting cherries more / than my hands washed clean / the blood don’t wash out / not always / cowboy you carry with you / your mother’s rage / your mother’s laugh / too my child a moth / translucent winged-creature / between him & the world / is a window I have to go / now the sun belongs to / my face salt-lipped / western pink sky with sand / & wind name me / between a fish / & a father fern-like / soft as the cherub’s feather / fisherman asks / where’s your horse / cowboy / fisherman shares half / of a tangerine / you’re a half-starved daughter / fisherman says / cowboy / those boots’ll do you no good / filled with sea
Gasping Room // Coat Closet
Your father dies & you have to learn
a new phone number by heart In the closet
hangs the coat he crashed in never washed
mostly blood & dirt dried the same
color the sleeves smell like pine & asphalt
This is how your father smelled always
Part of the motorcycle stayed
in the mountains Part of your father
stayed in the mountains This is not how
he died but he limped for a long time
afterwards A limp you inherited
some days so subtle you can barely see it
In the mountains you lose sight of the r oad
You lose sight of your father follow him
through the pine trees his slight lilt
to the left like yours his bare footsteps
disappearing fast in the heavy snow
Sex Poem With River Stone & Fig Wasp
& come when the river
is high water tumbling
stones to the smooths
of your palms Here
smells of grass the earth
of riverbank of city of
burrowing of burying
Turn your hand over
& find something
like a kitchen a spoon
clattering to the tile
like a star like a kneecap
like an exhale The dogs
won’t bark at the screen
door won’t beg to be let
in won’t beg for the half
of a purple fig we didn’t
eat The sun is on her own
lifeline own timeline
is not worried about leaving
us somewhere between sober
& streetlight wet
street uncluttered with cars
lined with trees whose
leaves don’t miss one
another against sky
don’t hold one another
like we do have never
kissed with tongue like
we do because what is
a curb but a stepladder
to get closer to a god
I don’t think exists &
what is a god but your
river-washed hands
on the small of my back
The inner of my thigh
No one is telling us
to come home so we don’t
We aren’t needed
anywhere but in the night
time Tell me when
The water Tell me what
you know about the fruit
trees the sweet of wasp’s
spine the sting of
something like bee’s wing
something like blood
thick with broken glass
softened at the edges
Broken animal sticky
with fruit & mouth
Marina Leigh (she/her) is a queer, biracial writer and photographer born and raised in Reno, Nevada. She earned her MFA in poetry as the Grisham Fellow at the University of Mississippi. Her work has been published in several journals, and she is the author of a poetry chapbook titled Wild Daughter.
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