Then There is This

But it’s only a dog, she blathers,
and I am fingering a brick,

metaphorically,
aimed at her vacuous brain,

my Band-Aid of propriety
ripped clean off,

my storage unit
of fuck-you’s laid bare.

My office window frames
a stand of shagbark hickories,

statues of dark gods lopping
off the sky, their mawkish gold robes

fading to autumn’s wither, promising
nothing but bitterness and bite.

Maybe my mother was right
all along, maybe

I’ll never be satisfied
until I poke out someone’s eye.

*

Kari Gunter-Seymour (she/her) is the Poet Laureate of Ohio and the author of three award-winning collections of poetry, including Dirt Songs (EastOver Press 2024) winner of the IPPY Bronze, NYC Big Book and Feathered Quill Awards. She is the Executive Director of the Women of Appalachia Project and editor of its anthology series Women Speak. Her work has been featured in a variety of journals and the American Book Review, Poem-a-Day, World Literature Today and The New York Times.

karigunterseymourpoet.com
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