Lisa Fishman
New Poems From the USA

Hum. The heater starts up.
Hum the cart of wheels
turns off my darling here.
The bricks of the street get warmed
on the woodstove. The bricks warm the bed. Hum there
a few bars with a pot of peas to be stirred
until your decision lacks consistency. It fluttered by.
Markt me with spokes. Did you? The street failed
to be a path for goats. To hum she got real low
to the ground like a line drive.
To keep warm she wore her lover’s velvet gowns.
He hummed her mouth
and the peas in the pot and the frigid
winter hummed. The decision went away, the abstract
gained weight, became a thigh
around a hip, a leg, or neck.
Oh, hum. My cartwheels suck.
Keep turning your hand there.
One over one over one.
We forgot to dance next year.
There in your mother’s yellow gown
goes the one you were curious about.
Shh. She twirls around the core
of the earth heats up.