Author: Katie Foster

Katie Foster is a student at Bennington College. She can be found on Tumblr.

me as you

you like to think
of yourself as someone
else so i made a copy
of your face & i put
the copy over
my face. now when you
kiss me you kiss you.
when you kiss you you
use too much tongue. always
too much tongue. i don’t
have a copy of your tongue
but i wish i did. i could
keep it as a big pink fish
in a bowl & i could take it
with me in my mouth when me
as you wanted to taste
you as you tasting me
as you. as for me
i wear you. i take you
off. i wear you.

girl slug in bed

today i touched myself as soon as i woke up & i thought about being with soggy dog at a party vaguely carrying him home on my back. i’m a slug with a little face with long eyes & long soggy dog says who are you put on some pants. what i’m trying to avoid in general: everyone i’ve slept with in the last year & everyone i’ve slept with in the last year’s girlfriend & the sleep that sleeps in my bed. the sleep has a recurring dream in which the soggy dog makes little attempt to save me from drowning in a cold river by a highway ad infinitum a million times. in the sleep’s dream the soggy dog is old & scared to swim & the soggy dog paces the grey riverbank & the soggy dog looks to the highway for help vaguely paws the water & i’m a slug in the water with no arms to hold on to anything & i die a million times in a row. the sleep waits for me to fold into it. the soggy dog looks at me from far away.

inventory

mom is living. mom’s mom is dead.
my houseplants are living. myspace is dead.
punk is dead. the rich are living.
arnold schwartzenegger is living. robots are dead.
the ends of my hair are dead. yogurt is living.
the squirrel on route 9 is definitely dead. debts are living.
what i forgot is dead. a walk is living.
door home is dead. getting a new wife is living.
the other car is dead. strangers on the internet are living.
having a lot of sex is living. baby teeth are dead.
period blood is dead. too much spit is living.
dry grass is dead. april is half living.
the cicadas are dead. you are living.
i am not dead. i am not dead.
you are not here.

duende

duende is a little gnome that lives inside of every good poem. duende has green skin & smells like death. when a poet writes a poem & duende decides to live in it the poet has no choice but to let duende unpack his things & move in. duende has many boxes of knives. duende will stay indefinitely until the neighbors can’t remember what the poet was like without duende & until the neighbors wonder if the poet could even be without duende. duende washes his sheets twice a year because duende likes stains. duende never comes when called. duende jumps up & down & scratches things. duende makes people cry. duende remembers the way the poet’s mother’s hands looked folded in prayer in church with her rings & the stained glass & that’s why the poet keeps duende around.