Last Appeal

Anne Marie Rooney



MOVE under the ample. Wear the knot of no one's promise. The light moves from fools' gold to fools not-ing. This is nothing but another weaning. Nod. Move with a step that shakes whole winds to whiskers. Tangle the men who stir and don't. God. And I want no teeth but one tooth and I want this one tooth to be as sharp—Nod—as a moving rock. When my skirt snags into you again—God—I am moved to shut up. Under the ampled month, I become this salty mouth, I quit. God, god, and goddamnit: move me or don't me, but git.



How to do this. To move through a feeling? Move the way you undress, in the impression of my heat. Through a feeling to move is to wear the heartened scuff. How to tine the ankles of feeling, of moving, the knees. This hiss, the hard of it. And sword the move of mouths. Heart, how do you impress your stealth.




MOVE asshole   Object of siring   Move siren   Move it snake-like   Land midsection Faceplant on me forward   Then backhand this cheek with   No   Be just   Sticky in the slender   Move fatter   Fathered   Like slam-sticky   Not   The sham knots   Move to the tall place   Move topple from the tower   And fasten faster   This is your water so take me   cheap   and off-color   Move lout   Anger chronicle   Artist of tack   (down here now)   Move the fuck out   but Move out of my fucking way   Up in this feeling is something moving in my street neck and dark and quiet and growing bigger but quiet and bigger and hollow me



Can I move from this. Am I the love depot, move. Move in the night if I say no one's name do I move. Will I crane up and move. Move, or the catch-place comes to. I capture without blinking I think I move, too.




MOVE in me, you know? Have that move in you. There is a big house and there is a small house and a house that shotguns through itself and water comes in. Though light moves in slides, in a triphammer of heat I onion open when you move the safety away. Move, and the burn of you cracks blue. Move, and if you were to shoot me, you would not shoot me through.



Fuck: the petering and the vine-crawled. Move with the soft give of a sea fuck or, yes, star. The widths move, but the moon is hot/wrong. Move through the lack of, the despondent, the no reentrance. Agent of dug-up—and then move threw me out.




MOVE candy off the counter. You can move back to the cavity if you know I'll move with you. You crab open this knowing. This candle moves light across the room, and I move into a feeling like sadness, but not sadness. So you move me. Yeah, I'm fucking moved.



                              Dear appellate, when last I wrote we lasted longer.


MOVE further   My moving is moved by your   Move with me and out of the move the me moved into   Moving you was never a move much further than mouth   We needed whatever wasn't until all our emboldened didn't just started moving





Anne Marie Rooney is an MFA candidate at Cornell University. She won this year's Iowa Review Award for Poetry, as well as 2nd place in Narrative Magazine's first annual poetry contest, and honorable mention in The Atlantic's Student Writing Contest. She was also a finalist for the Morton Marr Poetry Prize, and her chapbook "Shiner" was short-listed in Bateau Press's BOOM Competition. Her work has appeared in Columbia, Ninth Letter, the Best New Poets 2008 anthology, and elsewhere.