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Bridget Meeds/ 2 Poems

In The New World

Your mother will not protect you.
The names of flowers are currency.
You are the baby of the bathwater.

You are the underground daughter.
The earth weeps glistening muck.
Braids are the sought riddle.

It is time to forsake the girdle.
The geese are flying in circles.
You will live in the belly of a cello.

You will sleep without a pillow.
Come to this place of no history.
Name this scent and shape.

Winter Caesura

'Hey, how's it hangin'
sleep-deprived      scientists sing
wistfully      a woman walks
lipsticked and lovely      rats are lonely
caged and kept     from activist caution
the sky is sodden   people speak
only at night        never at noon
      'dude, she    dumped that dork
come to Dunbar's  and down some drafts'
a willet waves      its tagged wing
sleet sheets ice from the sky
bright and mean    men mention
grants and grumble            give awards
the telephone       its tongue talks
keeping company  with the crying woman
sobs soundlessly    on the screen
      'coffee? can't      it's the caffeine
but a bottle          of snapple and a bagel
is o.k.            arrive at eight'
in the laundromat lovers lace fingers
together touching   over teal sheets
washers whirl      wishlessly cleaning
blessed are the bakeries      buses are cursed
in language long    remembered in libraries
solely in binary      some speak
the weatherman     warns of wet
promises snow      and sleet soon