Rebecca Loudon


Your body the heat of a great city

glorious electric chair
raw lips
glory hand
too much
too much
air between us
like an ovenproof dish
a lamp in the foyer
your mouth's flame

I will                   stop speaking for 4 days
I will                   drink green tea
I will                   push antioxidant berries up my ass
I will                   drive slowly

a cleansing ritual with curtains         & blood

I'll continue
5 or 6 or 7 years from now
married or dead or rocking
inside the granary

narcotics are good
take them by halves
until you run out








Counting figs and wasps

I followed your dither through the maximum
amount of Christs
and a small helplessness
I wanted to see
how things looked after the dustup

I love you Puddinghead
I love you Fallen Fruit Bat
I love you Biscuit Mouth

my day-glo dress yielded a razor
and a couple on a sidewalk
near a pub in Chicago circa 1947
held hands she hummed
he frantically searched his pockets
there were holes in the wall of his belly
she was clueless

I insisted beyond names
until that day
you woke the rats

the elk in the clearing
startled up their flanky desire








What makes your skin supple makes you want to rub

I wanted to find you that night
instead I found implanted corn
staring through a girl’s window
chocolate & pencils
a drainage tube & ins.
naturally ins. lots of it & electrodes
surprised at how you’d aged
your brow worry-rumpled
as a reclined Sharpei
I have not aged at all what with the head
injury and 3 Coca~Colas per day etc.
I slammed my hand in the car door
just to be sure 6 pills
eine kleine traction
pink chew toys
on the floor







Rebecca Loudon lives and writes in Seattle. Her most recent book is Cadaver Dogs from No Tell Books.