Poetry: Selections from Kelly Moyer

The Honeymoon Phase 

Give me the stench
of a juicy liverwurst fart, 
your heart-wrenching sobs
of joy and pain. Press me
like a flower with the tread 
of your spare tire, Then, 
pickle my lips, won’t you,
with the brine dripping
like a tincture or potion
into the scruff and scraggle
of your graying mustache.

Anything but goddamn
lavender and eucalyptus.

For nothing could be
more reassuring to me 
than the perfection
of your imperfections,
your caustic tone, reckless
driving and unpaid bills.

So, while we patiently wait 
for the power to be restored,
let me twine my fingers
through the unruly hairs
deep within your pits
and nip at the chap
of your lovely liver lips.
Later, by lamplight, I’ll take
my time, plucking pimentos 
from the narrow spaces 
between your crooked teeth.


Tonight, I dyed my hair 
the color of silence
seconds before the storm,
the smooth of silk,
shredded by the teeth
of a jealous lover.
See how each strand
glistens in the moonlight
with the brilliance
of a howl that echoes
through the dark
as an interminable shriek?
The way it tastes
of candy cigarettes,
lit with the disdain
of an unforgiving mother?
If I’m not mistaken,
the hue is likely
to wash out over time,
but I doubt that I 
or that towel of yours
will ever come clean.

Call of the Void 

The cat chased a blue-tailed skink
into my subconscious this afternoon
after cornering it near the fireplace
while I was happily icing cookies.
The moment it happened, I could tell
he was more than a little dismayed.
The living room, his eyes communicated,
is a finite space with walls and furniture,
whereas the depths of my psyche
tend toward the pitch-black vastness
of a vacuum that he finds daunting, 
yet alluring, nonetheless. L’appel du vide,
he explained as we curled up together
for a quick nap before evening. 

Within the hour, we gradually awakened 
forehead to forehead, whisker to eyelash, 
as he kneaded the pillow on which I rested 
my head. The pressure behind my eyes 
was intense and squirming, making me
more than a little woozy. Sensing
my pain, he held up a single paw and ran
from the bedroom. There was a brief
clank of cooling racks before he returned
with a sour cream cookie, decorated
in hues of orange and purple, which he
dropped on my chest, free for the nibbling.

Once satiated, I let my eyes fall back shut, 
savoring the coolness of his toe beans
as he splayed his soft paws through the wisp
of my errant locks, his low purr lulling 
me right back into a dreamscape of hearthfire,
buttercream frosting and little lizards with 
big dreams and oh-so-little time on their side.

Kelly Moyer can often be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her husband and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, has recently been released by Nun Prophet Press.