Four Poems by Lily Kosmicki

The Eternal Birthday

she is turning 7, indefinitely
reoccurring dusty pink
paint coats the walls
the pastels of southwestern
wallpaper imitate a desert
seemingly innocuous suburbs
outdated, distinctly 80s
little girls are everywhere
sprinting and squealing
wearing plastic tiaras
exuding safety
their own, not yours
something bad happened
to their mothers
where are their mothers
maybe the little girls did it
they were just here weren’t they?
a glass table with gold legs
holds a kachina doll
bedazzled with fake turquoise
guarding the door
that no one can get out of

Thoracic Spine

reoccurring swimming in “i love it” and “I like it” and so
“I love my day,” ecstasy in movement in time, out of flesh
times talk to each other, time talks to itself, do you know?

i know what we live inside is home and clock enmeshed
what i touched today i hold in dirty palms, hands upward
history ends with a birth, days age with mint refreshed

every seven years, restraint and liberation rupture
a new body raw throbbing tick-tock, provoked sensation
next exhalation, linings trace plunging lungs, i color, discolor

what we hold in common is embodied framing, visceral persuasions
we took each other there, took each other home on boneshakers
she wrote for me when i didn’t have arms, made me into new equations

i was a hundred little girls, known only by paper
ears make sense of where we all are in the house or the world
children’s phalanges are inquires, spindle and orb makers

step on the shell to see soft radial abdomens curled
what could this mean? from here to there, too close to see
bound by the state and time of being young and unfurled

wood in, dust out, the king’s lung, horned, round, locked up with a caged tree
while little girls’ angels, unprecious carries backbones and egg teeth
pencil became pen in semicircular tangles, tissues rabid and free

relations translated, tablatures rotating, high strings’ sinewy sheathe
dahlias in a box in the basement grow extra limbs to hold god,
systems ago, we walk away together, able to finally breathe

debraining horns: integumentary

appendages are touched and named by the skin rain
curlicue arms, hooves, cuticle fingers
surround enclosures with ultraviolet follicles
raw throbbing tick-tocking provokes sensation
vessels and roots bask and soak under husks, rinds, cloaks
fish scales under mousy thin long fingers

what we live inside is a home and clock, coming back from
orbit (what we hold in common is embodied framing) lunula disperse disguises
subjective and objective play between strands of hair (long, thin, knotted, old)
language written on the body, itchy, as if i’m getting new skin
distorted tissues attuned, saturated against the sound of battered and dirty wings landing

Soft-Focus Miracle

surrounded by premature pinecones,
every smell in the world accumulates around
rivulets, red bandages, and one white cloud

trapped between shores, rewording
trapped in the ox’s belly, burning alive
and singing, singeing
the lion of this world is auxiliary and ancillary

the things I never noticed before are everywhere
veils and batons spin around some human center
around which orbits no reason
its always turning, turbid, blurry

ringlets of my hair are on fire
surrounded by thickets and fish eggs,
too many seeds, an overpowering amount of seeds,
sewn to grow a few years, a new time

both the lion and the ox mend, ask a slew of questions
both are looking at us, head-on, face-first
both the predator and prey
from an above which is also below

Lily Rose Kosmicki is a person, beekeeper, and librarian at the public library and by night she is a collector of dreams. Her zine Dream Zine won a Broken Pencil Zine Award for Best Art Zine 2018. Her chapbook entitled “Eyelash Atlas” is forthcoming from Francis House.
Instagram: @lilykosmicki