Two Poems

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Miscombobulation

Our island is a toupee
slim and remote.
On it I kiss you to obscene effect
because I'm a teenage whiny tree
I want everything you have
A plot on land
Stinky little chickens to feed
Water table bees fiends
But how big will I get.
My face in your fragrant pit
and the virgin's bower vine
I don't know if I'm losing.
All the neighbors are friends-of-friends.
The island is a bottleneck.

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Mythistory

I had never thought to leave.
Even then I mistook the day

for play when really it was serious—
the Chesapeake a warm bath

for our splendid bodies, peninsular,
nude recline—

like old bottles, like small stones,
brackish mussels—a bowl of our own.

It was not a pleasurable day.
I could have cupped the clouds,

licked the capsular sweetness
from their fringe, that's how close

to heaven—
but I passed the channel. I surpassed love.

And heard no sound, not even my own arms.
The island grew and grew 

smaller. The mile westward
I floated, I was furthest on earth

as I could have been from you.

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Alejandra Vansant is from the Eastern Shore of Virginia, but currently writes, quilts, and walks around in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She is Associate Poetry Editor of New Delta Review. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Volume Poetry and Alabama Literary Review. 

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