Three Poems by Riley Ratcliff

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Mary in Review

snow snows snow — doubling the moon — back to sleep the injured — palms needing time you built — 
caves into the hour — dug bridges out — of deserts — blue-blinded yourself — against the pomegranate  
sky — clouds in their glamor advertise life — which takes you by the years — hot in the pulse of a pillow 
— cheek to your muzzled neck I — listened to your hums prefigured words — say — scarring my window 
— leaving a mass after pleasure — leaving a corpse in the shadow — leaving thoughts of a loving — past 
not to mention — how that constellation makes me feel — alethic — that percentage of the world that 
— we cleared — as children — note for note in water — in inventoried light — we relieved the weight of 
desire — preserved our fascination — all in all we waited for good reasons — 

*

Mary in the Crosshairs

another arid evening — some creek and its cherries — named after children — the spiderweb retracts — 
in your voice the minutes flee — their arrogance — heat away from windows — drawn to your cheek — 
a desperate agency — keeps track — in touch — of records — you say — the state is a mood ring — the 
breezes trace your ear — canals — like archivists — in the cold — room of attention space invades — to 
address — its own invitation — as if — the polyamorousness of each — utterance — could be confused 
— for a connection — to occasion the means to build — a glistening web — how many dimensions to 
which I can apply — my discomfort — to find myself a glitch in love — coordinates slip — my mind — 
have you asked what’s left to be known — about each other — about ourselves — take for example my 
pulse — behind your eyes — take for example my offer —

*

Mary in Absentia 

so — slow in the way you — feel — absent when the traffic hums — away — toward uncollected prop-
erties — you unaddressed your house — so angry that you were left out — all night — to cry at implicit
designs — the uncoupled weather — the birth of your feather — at the least — appropriate moment —
the arrival of a habit with your skin — as fog — solidifies — freezing silhouettes — you fear were left by
aforementioned blues — and light rain — how do you recover from a night — resolved — by sunlight —
which is a visual sense greater — than your own — the closest you’ve come to starlight — this
suspension between points — in the choral plan of insects — and frogs excited by rain — so you finish
cigarettes — in a parking lot — part morning —