Aimee Wodda
The First Step in Swordmaking
Said the woodcutter, “Wife? A little snow girl to amuse us?”
A dark thing swept in
Known
swayed a bone cradle
wounded her was.
Fresh-In-Pain made a round of it.
To smoldering yurt she is flavor, like the good hair.
Birch-trees lash her face.
They carried Moon-belly on the covered thing
Made from common pelts.
Those wearing leaves called forth an amulet,
A child some will call Little-no-Baba.
Used-to-Pain lay as though the coming season was a stricture.
No one said, “He was sorely tempted”
Instead, they complained: “Wherever we pull legs
find a child.”
Aerodynamic Stabilization, Your Occupation
Slam dancing between era and item
you create the structures required of this particular crowd
Ridges of grass press the spine.
A prototypical Teen impacted by must in background ways.
The other reason: lubricating variety.
Their excellent X were soft, having already been Bad with another.
While young Americans were blackening in the upper index of heat,
three wide woodland flood roe cut their eponymous EP.
It jumps wind without tempo:
The crescent range grows bone.
[So, the singer was its fingertips]
The born push too or wear the role in thick days, founded and symbol side
the album (cassette-only or vinyl).
Tracks of a lithe doe, nearly hardcore season
Cold, not clean enamel
Records, ruminants, velvet {specifically}
Memory is the hot other branch.
Lure fawns, step behind their hawk scene, never their wrapped eye
Start plain; pan American life, and rest there, stage diving.
They feel called together.
“Go again,” you say.
(Hoarse, from wearing away their velvet.)
Tour, tape, scene
Overtake the fawn’s stance
Give them the until feeling…
This Fletcher yells for his herd
cooking it down
Band
Bad water
Raw discord
Drop the notes
Swap Us for a Pair of Sheep
This lawn smell lying rough.
We make the anthill home.
Clowns out and down below.
Ride in strange car. Crying. There, a lesson.
We went to get nachos.
Fresh mown lay our sky.
The trouble began at the popcorn display.
Intermission.
A woman demonstrated on chopped tickle backs.
An attached ride to a falling wall.
There, facedown, I wanted to write lightning soup.
Grandma and her job, kitchen smoking
The place she sat on the way to
Rattle the streetlight.
I felt stuck.
Become me, page.
What I wanted was
My cousin and I in small cotton.
We were going to the circus.
Clown hit the other cried.
A man in a cage rode in trouble and began--
Intermission.
There was an illustrated man throwing
Green papery alleluia my way like hot sausage.
Ten coming with a chair.
I felt in fireflies.
To write about the--
This cousin and I napped.
We ate cotton candy.
The floor, motorcycle, upside home, my cousin got the first time.
We ladled the cheese. I felt like this circus, back two, and so
Took a seat ringside.
--
Aimee Wodda received her MA in English Literature from the University of Illinois at Chicago and is currently working on a PhD in Criminology, Law, and Justice. She would write more poetry if she wasn’t so busy dissecting the constitutional interpretation of the word “sex.