November in the Soul
Bottle-shaped hole—the craving
for the craving lingers, though the craving
I bind myself with pins & masking tape
& thimblefuls of tapeworms. Mother knits
beside the bridal pool—
her fingers undulate, green & wan.
She looks like fate to me.
I run, breaking my crown on the fireplace.
Masked doctors shriek & trill, stitching the gash over my eye
with catgut, with lies of baleen & yarn.
Finned monsters writhe below the floor.
My hiemal estate—
a puddle & a dead leaf.
Cats yowl into wells, brewing new oceans underground.
The Mayflower Corps dogs the port—
I’m a tear & the sea is my home, I splutter,
but they bark in my ear, YOU’RE A CAT.
Glassed eyes bob between the rocks. Walls
shimmer, papered with sunfish, with pancaked
stardust. Murmuring mantic, we confront the sun—
some float wavewards through the sewer bars,
some tumble, pine-pierced, on the katabatic.
Above us, the Grey Lady & the indifferent
By Amee Nassrene Broumand
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American poet. She has a B.A. in Philosophy & English from Boise State University, where she tutored logic for six semesters, graduated summa cum laude, & was named a Top Ten Scholar. Nominated for a Pushcart by Sundog Lit, she also has poems in Word Riot, A-Minor Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, Windfall, & elsewhere. She currently lives in Portland, Oregon & blogs for Burning House Press (UK).