EMILY CLARK

IMAGINE SAM

 

Imagine there are two people.  They are both called Sam.
Sam 1 makes you get up early and the other keeps you awake thinking all night.  
Imagine that Sam 2 toasts to your presence with flat champagne and kisses you with a sticky mouth.

{Deceiving, contemplating, aching, dancing.
Moving songbird enfant//infant
Dynamics
Otherworldly, chlorine, pools, pools, pools.}

 

Imagine Sam 1 swims in public pools and leaves you with an aching bulimic sweat.  
Sam 2 hates show tunes and flies away from you in downtrodden planes on fourteen hour flights, maybe the red eye.

{Downtrodden planes eclipsing the Tropic of Capricorn.
Master bulimic carcassed pools.
Show tune hunter, glimmering hunger.
Fainting children, heart stops—cardiac creases.
Faint echo, echoing moons.  [Keep them in cupboards.]}

 

Sam 1 likes to curl up and then stretch out across your bed sheets, bathing in the summertime scent—possibly coaxing you out, possibly putting you off.
Sam 2 washes the rotting dust off your body with a wet cloth; sometimes you can feel their fingernails.  
Sam 1 reminds you of a baby deer, the harmless hooves carving and paving a way for you on darkened trails.  Sam 1 anchors you, you are catchable.  
Sam 2 makes animal sounds, has an animal mouth, gives off animal fumes.  
Sam 1 is a queer songbird, a holy infant, a holy enfant, a faint echo, a delicate moon.
Sam 2 is breaking bones, is a master of dynamics, Sam 2 brings you little flesh boats.

{Bones break, molded face.
Flesh boats, demographics (specific).
Toast to dampened fingers.  Refilling canteens.
Free to love down darkened trails.  
Stretch.  Stretch out the fingers.}

 

You are not sure if one loves you or if one will inevitably destroy you (or both).  
You watch Sam 1 throw you moon corpses to consume.  You eat them without a second thought, even though you aren’t sure what they’re made of.  
Sam 2 studies rainbows and biology and gives you pieces of advice.  You believe the advice and follow through even though it has never gotten you anywhere good.

{Wet cloth, wash me, bury the rotting dust.
Apple corpses; animal mouth.  Animal fumes.  
Franchising friendships, please release your holdings.
Bathing in the summertime—coax me.}

 

Imagine that both Sam 1 and Sam 2 lick two equal sides of your heart clean, and because of this there’s no blood in your arms or at your waist.

Imagine your wrist beats blue when both Sams seek you out in the middle of the sea, on plantations, inside the whimper of the mice at the bottom of your teacup.  

Imagine Sam 2 is holding you down, underwater, in the same public pool that Sam 1 has frequented.  

They have met before, on several occasions.  They have probably known each other for a long time, know each other’s palms, and the cardiac creases that go on top of it.  

{Deer: doe.  Queering razors.
Harmless hooves, anchor your bait; catchable.
Vat of mechanical hides, thrown up on wood walls.
Dizzy tree bark, with dirty mechanisms.  
Toss up your foils.
Anchor your frantic means.}  

 

EMILY CLARK IS A MFA CANDIDATE AT THE JACK KEROUAC SCHOOL OF DISEMBODIED POETICS.  SHE IS LIVING IN BOULDER COLORADO.  HER WORK HAS APPEARED IN KATE FEMINIST LITERARY MAGAZINE, AND QUIZ AND QUILL LITERARY MAGAZINE.
GestureEMILY CLARK