Farrah Field

Amy Keeps Her Cold Blood Cool​


Ice with water. What are you
doing under those rocks. Getting off
on pleasing other people. Someone
caught you with a vibrator. Stop
laughing. These are my girlfriends.
You look like pain. How come you say
pocketbook. Glass hammer moments.
Where do dreams go to die. Someone
keeps touching your hips. Your car
won’t make it in the desert. It was only
supposed to take an hour. Walking
cattle gates. There are eight phrases
that give away secret societies.
Are women really women
if they’re not aware they’re being
watched. How’d you mount all that hair.
Where do you get trim. The nose can do
what the tongue does, the elbow.
When you finish cleaning
​your glasses, go to Milwaukee.

Amy Stole From Your Blog​


Playing tipsy let’s pretend
the power’s out.
Sit in a dark room or a dark room sits in you.
What a terrible search
for a wire box.
How much for
creative materials.
This pizza is best.
This cousin is in labor.
Folded fabric. Screaming ear.
Everyone knows
something I don’t.
In the locker
where we were down
to our socks.
Are you going
to unwrap the wrap.
I saw your name on a sign
and called the number.
​

Amy, Nerd Licker​

                                          
Mama’s boy plays with his pubes.
Listen very carefully. Stick this

up your shaved utopia. That rubbing

causes slight burning until hot face.
Days go away faster. Send this to me

as an attachment. Airplanes look

like sharks. Politics isn’t politics anymore.
Vegetarian jerk. Open a piano

stick out your ass and breathe.

The worst volunteer.
​Staring out the window window.
​

Le Creuset, Le Creuset, Amy Le Creuset


I put The French Revolution in a pile
                              Are these our battles
                              or what you never told your mother
They were wearing sunglasses inside the studio
The removal of women from the equation
I typed hump and Humphrey Bogart appeared
Do you know what happens to a potato stamp left out two nights
                              This is my teenage self
                              yelling at my parents
Everyone in your family talks at the same time
You babble in a pot of butter beans
                              Get me when I’m all salmony and fillibustery
Cock you believe I sound so domestic Can you believe
I’m loose in the hips again Can you believe
all women stick-sketched into sand have big boobs
                              My name is not on the house
                              What loss I was looking for
More emails meant more something
Dinner plans on the 18th
Touch the pom pom maker
You’ll be getting rid of the rid of soon
                              Abandoned plain and simple
                              Even if you died right now
                              I’d still say you talk too loud
I’m kneeling on the hood of the car
leading with a metal rod
You were looking for a fabric napkin
                              Two people people together
                              ​Some of what they say is for the other person
Are you where you can listen
Let’s call this a screen test  


 


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Farrah Field is the author of Rising (Four Way Books, 2009) and Parents (Immaculate Disciples Press, 2011). Two of her poems appear in The Best American Poetry 2011 as well as Harp & Altar, Sink Review, West Wind Review, and Sixth Finch. Her second book of poetry Wolf and Pilot (Four Way Books) is forthcoming in 2012. She blogs at adultish.blogspot.com and is co-owner of Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop.