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RENNIE AMENT

 

 

MARIN HEADLANDS

 

Forbidden, the sign said. Fine,
we’ll have a little death brush

then come back with a sack
of pillow lava—fist-sized rocks

to use as door stops. I’ll go into
a detailed account of Civil War  

battle casualties, though no one
wants that window, I’m fact-

bound. Fog wedged all around.
It doesn’t taste too sweet, so open up  

and let the grey in—Love, Life (writ
in rips of cloud without English).  

Huddled by a hilltop bunker, we
find graffitied, God invented menses.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER

 

Heat oversaw the small room. We wore

beads of sweat. C. had what looked like ringworm

on his torso since I’d used my teeth 

all week so he’d flinch reaching for a glass.

We bought a mid-sized hole

and named it California Rust. Trees grew like trees

a kindergartener drew—fluffy sheep

fleshed out the leaf.

Swinging antique billy clubs the way you stun a fish

before earning the privilege of its guts,

I’d fill the air with pheromones—

produce musk, lingering pine. Put on pants. Bring

the door down. Lay it flat. Float hoping

Agloolik bobbed up (god who stops boats via biting)

bringing us smelt, cod and pike in wet

Victorian flower language.

WEARING SATEEN CIGARETTE PANTS REINFORCED AT THE CROTCH

 

Change one thing in this succulent patch.          Try cutting up          a lengthy pause,       
She wrote and tucked          her journal plus          binoculars into

her bomber           jacket pocket,          slipped
out through the fence gap like a roseate love egg,          past plume of the Plum

Point Power Energy Station.          Draped          in chemical glamour,           
a walking-urn urge towards         historic         cooperation with armed locals

led her home,          past Hog Pen BBQ            and road crow, long
lay it sunning,          fun fact.          Full of full

body love for the lush smoke over everything joy          -riddled/ghost-          riddled:
is          this bitch fit for bliss or do I need to pull another lever?          went the Delta.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Rennie Ament studied poetry at Hunter College, where she has taught creative writing. Her work has appeared in The Minnesota Review, The Journal, Bat City Review, Sixth Finch, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the 2018 Yellowwood Prize in Poetry from Yalobusha Review, a finalist for the Anzaldua Poetry Prize, and a nominee for both the Pushcart Prize and Best New Poets. She has received fellowships from the Millay Colony, the Saltonstall Foundation, the New York State Summer Writers Institute, the Center for Book Arts, and the Vermont Studio Center. She lives in New York City and online at www.rennieament.com