At the height of prime time. Just then
grinding out orgasm. Grinding out pendular
stroke, stoking literally—the insider
element, silicone in bathhouse décor.
Takeittome blue. A task that poses no real danger.
Since. Forcing. Forcing my little hen further.
This isn't a real orgasm, a real patellar fatigue.
Is done with the boys I say, I say on to the mine,
on to the ghost, splurge the forgot town.
On to the filler the spiller the shine
the mitten the bitten the rumpus the rind.
The rumpus the rind the bitten begot. Got
was the way I took to the sequin, the hill.
The home stead was a blanket in thigh-cinch.
My cinch, my dappled Appaloosa on head.
My mutton chop. My mother lode. My talents
are crowning. The crow is groaning. The pigeons
electric & guiltless & freed. What are those mountains
so wildly seen. Before me los padres the fathers, the swine.
Into the canyon, the boxed horse I climb.
Poems by Lillian-Yvonne Bertram can be found in Alligator Juniper, Bat City Review, Cream City Review, Gulf Coast, Harvard Review, Indiana Review, jubilat, la fovea, Narrative Magazine, Subtropics, Sou'wester, and other journals. For the moment she live in the Berkshires with her partner and their cat, Hipolito Yrigoyen. A native of Buffalo and a once-upon-a-time Pittsburgher, she roots for the Steelers and the Bills, and is a guest poetry editor over at Arsenic Lobster.