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Two Poems
by Laura Sims


Little House

Mother’s smooth, parted hair

Hands busy with light

The buttons that buttoned her basque up the front

And the girls – little waists
Under wings of sleek hair

*

          A bright new bullet
          Shiny new bullets
          Their shining eyes

*

Wearing only a loincloth

He curried the horses

*


Till all the meat fell from the bones

*

(Now

It can never be long, long ago

Public Works


Those pre-hung doors

of the native state / the return

to a native, pre-eminent state

wholly immanent, wise

and woolly.

What will be permanent matters

to calming devices

          the whims of an ice age

Where others have failed do you think this hump

addled by chicanes, chokers,

narrowings, neck downs

This is life on a median island, I guess.


One makes up a host

of confinements by which to abide, in a galaxy

armed with a featherweight touch

only joking