CAMERON DECKER


Open Casket

Sometimes I can't
​move a single chess piece
​without bursting into angles.

​I get distracted
​trying to smooth the white square
​of cloth covering my face. But

​there is a place I go
​where I don't have to miss
​the sundial:

​The freckles on your face and body,
​the way they trade places.
​Your collarbone wreathed in sleeping lilies.

​We pry out our diodes.
​We make our two cities touch.
​This white owl refuses to snow

​in reverse, but with the gentle unpinning
​of each corner of silk,
​I shovel more coal into the sky and call it

​a death in both directions.


Summer, I didn't get the flowers you sent

Because I was afraid of your leaving
​and spent four months guarding

a nest of Malachite eggs,
​little never-hatchlings.

Because a hummingbird's breath
​smells like dynamite.

Because the mole beneath
​your left breast

reminds me of Europe.
​Laughing in antique shops.

Ugly chair. Big Navajo braid.
​Because if you ask for a metaphor,

you will receive a pair
​of jumper cables

with nothing to attach them to.


BIO

CAMERON DECKER is a poet and programmer living in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared in journals such as Black Tongue Review and The Laureate. More information about other projects can be found on his website, www.rockandrazor.com.