Two poems
pink inside
carpel noctem
Benjamin Mast
pink inside
carpel noctem
Benjamin Mast
Study of Arms for "The Cadence of Autumn," by Evelyn De Morgan, 1905 (image courtesy of The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, 2018, The Art Institute of Chicago)
pink inside
in a dream
a tongue
escaped my forearm
thick and pink
and harder than a mouth-tongue
(it came from the scar where
my uncle once dug
a cyst like a chickpea
out from under
blue-lined skin)
in that dream
i turned to my father
and wondered
whether i would speak
or whether my body would
(a professor laughs
at my attempts to
dichotomize)
you are your body
you are your body
like the chorus of a hymn
sung in four parts
sung out of mouths
wrapped in pink gloss
the thrashing organ inside
making sounds into sounds
i lap at the words around me
tasting is
reading and
i have only opened
the book
its pink covers
split and
labial
(or so i imagine)
or so i imagine
and as always
(always)
the decision stands before me
whether to partake
in song
and sex
and subconscious
with this luscious tongue
or with
the other
in a dream
a tongue
escaped my forearm
thick and pink
and harder than a mouth-tongue
(it came from the scar where
my uncle once dug
a cyst like a chickpea
out from under
blue-lined skin)
in that dream
i turned to my father
and wondered
whether i would speak
or whether my body would
(a professor laughs
at my attempts to
dichotomize)
you are your body
you are your body
like the chorus of a hymn
sung in four parts
sung out of mouths
wrapped in pink gloss
the thrashing organ inside
making sounds into sounds
i lap at the words around me
tasting is
reading and
i have only opened
the book
its pink covers
split and
labial
(or so i imagine)
or so i imagine
and as always
(always)
the decision stands before me
whether to partake
in song
and sex
and subconscious
with this luscious tongue
or with
the other
carpel noctem
she segments a mandarin at midnight,
pith under nail and peels like petals
on the counter, waiting for morning's fresh ambition.
her sheets will smell of citrus tonight,
wiped ripe by unwashed hands sticky with juice.
the wedges are beetles (she’s thought this before,
and now tonight too in the kitchen dark,
blind to the overhead light for the orange bright in her palm,
she feels wet beetles scuttle across skin).
in seventh grade she skinned a rabbit,
kept the bloodied softness in her coat pocket to stroke
while the others wondered at the lurking rot.
a crescent stain from her water glass
sickles through the counter. it announces an end.
she is the rabbit: sanguine, skinless, soft (finally).
holding citrus hands to her cheek,
she imagines florida sun drying her hide,
capturing her. another piece splits between teeth.
she segments a mandarin at midnight,
pith under nail and peels like petals
on the counter, waiting for morning's fresh ambition.
her sheets will smell of citrus tonight,
wiped ripe by unwashed hands sticky with juice.
the wedges are beetles (she’s thought this before,
and now tonight too in the kitchen dark,
blind to the overhead light for the orange bright in her palm,
she feels wet beetles scuttle across skin).
in seventh grade she skinned a rabbit,
kept the bloodied softness in her coat pocket to stroke
while the others wondered at the lurking rot.
a crescent stain from her water glass
sickles through the counter. it announces an end.
she is the rabbit: sanguine, skinless, soft (finally).
holding citrus hands to her cheek,
she imagines florida sun drying her hide,
capturing her. another piece splits between teeth.
About the Author
Benjamin Mast grew up in a small Mennonite community in the midwest. He and his partner currently live in Washington state, where they both teach high school.
About the Work
"pink inside: I am a cysty person; I get a lot of cysts. I wrote this piece after my uncle removed one from my arm. The rest are still growing, and ridding myself of them might require more poems.
carpel noctem: Touch has always been a compelling concept for me. Often, touch is explored in terms of our relationship to other humans. But our relationships to food, animals, even light are often managed by our sense of touch. This poem explores that relationship."
About the Author's Process
"I write most of my poetry in April, during which I, along with three other fellow poets, each write a poem every day. I spend the rest of the year focusing on revisions of these same poems as well as short stories and longer fiction pieces."
Benjamin Mast grew up in a small Mennonite community in the midwest. He and his partner currently live in Washington state, where they both teach high school.
About the Work
"pink inside: I am a cysty person; I get a lot of cysts. I wrote this piece after my uncle removed one from my arm. The rest are still growing, and ridding myself of them might require more poems.
carpel noctem: Touch has always been a compelling concept for me. Often, touch is explored in terms of our relationship to other humans. But our relationships to food, animals, even light are often managed by our sense of touch. This poem explores that relationship."
About the Author's Process
"I write most of my poetry in April, during which I, along with three other fellow poets, each write a poem every day. I spend the rest of the year focusing on revisions of these same poems as well as short stories and longer fiction pieces."
