By Celine Izsak
Say, I want a voice, a wing-singing, small sound,
so I can send Tahquitz Twister to tie-dyed tongues—
even with the ocean falling from the sky,
desert mouths stay dry.
When the birds sever the last liquid sunshine,
winds wind through the mouths of krill who overlay their
pink transparent bodies onto sunset, then die.
Even then, sounds sound outside.
Creosote soaks petrichor when night sky gives
mouth to mouth, wind to breath. Then I’ll try pigeon post,
fly the birds to my selfsame address—I hope
letters beget betters.
On that draft, below this door crack, I underhear
her scream under that mouth that isn’t hers—his—
I, I sink an undersea grunt fish behind breathing doors to
undersee night sounds.
I want to pull the plug, so the moon can plunge
into ocean—so Io never heard of Zeus—so I never heard of his
plastiscenes making fun of pink-lined women’s thighs.
No. Those are cellulite skies.
He makes a ragdoll of you—names it love, undoes you.
Even with the ocean falling, I hear you—
desert-dry, still sounding outside his mouth.
Mermaid, harpy—sound your sound.
Celine Izsak (she/her) is a poet-educator based in Joshua Tree, California in the U.S. She has served as a Visiting Assistant Professor at the University of Iowa, where she held the Provost’s Visiting Writer appointment and taught advanced poetry seminars; she holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and is currently a PhD candidate in English at the University of California, Los Angeles.