Augusta Funk

Lamb’s Machinery

Having come to hate spring, I wander down a street
of lamps and stand in a doorway emptied of rain.

Around the corner some butchers make their dull knives

sing. Song of mother. Song of meat. Picture soft apples
in a brown bag, a necklace of something’s teeth. Today,

no snow was falling but I looked up so many times I felt

my neck pulse. And stopping to simply tie my shoe meant
stopping to touch all the heart-shaped leaves of last year.

I wanted to stay there, inside that body, as I felt the snow

give way and my arms turn in and out of sync. While
I rust. While I blue. What keeps the small box beating

inside the breast, with only the gray? Any song would do.

A good place to lie down. Dusk or dawn. In place of snow
your garden drips coins into people’s palms. The hard ground

swells under my steps. I swallow what is tender. Raw.

Augusta Funk lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She received her MFA from the University of Michigan and has work appearing in Best New Poets 2019, The Massachusetts Review, Tupelo Qurterly, and elsewhere.
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    Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí