Julie Doxsee

Meridian | Jerusalem
New Poems From the USA


thin exhale on shoe sole
says popping
is the sound of a semi-tire
meeting a two liter rolling
bottle not a shotgun.
a pancake is nostalgia
for two faces differentiating one
side of the giant window
from the other
chewing slowly near
a nearby winter newsstand.
a shadow sticks to south-leaning
in the street
and lifts its pant leg
for every person
stepping out of the phone
booth with a yearning look.
the teasing skin of leather,
boot, pentium 4, train platform—
the snake-charmer noise
of the blue line when it rains.
the entire city has slept
past the lives of such
relieving yawns. for instance:
“i remember enjoyment as a smile on my reason.”
aside in jerusalem the shell-on
peanuts are warm and
a guy with a mohawk
is about to get hitched.
a woman ties her wrists
up with her own bra strap,
biting into each person
in the room for just a day.
“i wouldn’t yearn,” she says,
“but I’m a happy suicidal.”
the groom-to-be kisses each girl
in line for the bathroom,
then raises a punky fist
in the air with a multi-kissed woo
i'm too sexy for my shirt
turned up to seven or eight.
with time, from the street, south,
comes a popping noise—
young girl shunting inherited
guns from shoulder to armpit.
and from the sky comes a light
a star-beam that says
“this is our little place.”