April Poetry Month (Day 24): Emilie Lindemann #npm15 #wppoets

[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]

Emilie Lindemann

Emilie Lindemann lives on a farm in rural Manitowoc County, where she teaches at Silver Lake College . She has two chapbooks, Dear Minimum Wage Employee, and The Queen of the Milky Way, both available from dancing girl press. In her free time, Emilie plays violin with the folk band Cato Falls.


 

{Typical Specimen}: Inside a small adult tree a downy-haired illegitimate child sleeps. You’ll take turns nursing her from a ceramic avocado green bottle—androgynous earth mothers, both of you. In the night, she never cries but rather recites every illicit phrase you ever whispered to one another in the dank confines of a bar called The Reptile Palace: “You are a beautiful plant just beginning to blossom.

 

Lovers’ Quilt

Deciduous leaves may be present on the small adult tree. They fall and become, over time, a layered, leafy comforter that absorbs any quantity of cum. Underneath, the two lovers caress and anticipate the treads of small earth worms like massage beads trailing. Purrrrrrrr. The small adult tree quilt can be stitched together with fallen body hairs when desired.

 

Tapestry Trunk

When they wrap the trunk with birthday party streamers, they pretend they are slathering one another with Jergen’s lotion. Cherry almond. Their favorite colors are purple and teal. She remembers those Chinese finger torture sticks they used to give out at birthday parties and county fairs in the eighties and nineties. He remembers learning to weave potholders from nylon loops at summer camp. They rest with their backs on either side of the trunk and imagine an endless criss-crossing of limbs.

 

Puzzle Pieces

There’s really not enough room in the small adult tree for both of them. Like squeezing into a twin-size bunk in a dorm room. She remembers a married couple in college who rested chastely in a fully-clothed 69 on the sofa in the student center. Like puzzle pieces, she murmured to everyone who would listen above the hum of the never-ending assembly line of caramel mochas. Milk was always being steamed. She tries to be the girl from college—Mara with her curly red hair—and she squeezes her eyes shut. There.

 

 

These three poems are from Small Adult Trees/Small Adulteries (Dancing Girl Press, 2014) and were published previously in Brawler: Milwaukee Literary Mag.

[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]

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