Mary Kasimor

cell phone drunk

            When you called me you said that you dialed while you were drunk. Were you happy that you dialed my number or do you have many regrets? We are still deciding this after 35 years. I think that you said that your daughter was a good cook. I love the color of red peppers. I think that your daughter is quite beautiful. You should forgive her after she has left. I don’t think that anything is possible. We do only what we want to do. Then we go to sleep in our confusion. Sometimes we sleep together and I can never forgive you. I need to realize that you are quite flawed and boring. I never thought I’d say that. I never know what I’ll say. I love the impossible and often I undress it, and it looks like a naked turkey or a flower with all its petals torn off. Did that hurt you? I didn’t mean to pull off your skin.

wood bench

The absence of self still it’s noisy in the
room and my heart pumps reflecting moon light
and yet it’s past and fails to peel off the sky in
blue and no one moves & it’s noisy reflecting
falling gravity in shapes and water balances
when life hides behind masks and ancient theater
in the garden is space and mineral and heart
pumps and body points to gray winds on wooden
chairs we sit to distract the portraits with
tongues and thoughts above and unbalanced
while wheels change shadows of old things
cruising in sci-fi versions that plant waves in ears
to beaches that sell immunity from internet sites
and throw out brooding chickens and unplanted
eggs in batteries through peak holes and
dominatrix the tooth failed the past for in the
supermarket light reversed the chain of events as
viewed through sausage and high spirited violins
discovering life on mars so there existed for the
sheep in the meadow looking through tinted
glasses of ginger ale June left a crater in the
chicken’s heart in November I harvested the icy
etchings of the sun.

Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in Big Bridge, Arsenic Lobster, Horse Less Review, Nerve Lantern, Altered Scale, Word For/Word, Posit, 3 AM, EOAGH, and The Missing Slate. She has three previous books and/or chapbook publications: Silk String Arias (BlazeVox Books), & Cruel Red (Otoliths), and The Windows Hallucinate (LRL Textile Series). She has a new collection of poetry published in 2014, entitled The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books).
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis ( is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit ( and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.