Friday, 29 January 2016


  two poems
     Kate Hargreaves


 A piece of skin the size of a quarter and the shape of Texas
 A clot (swallowed)
 A pineapple
35 plastic army men
A pantsuit
A birthday card
Culture Club
A carrot
Several ladybugs
A jar of sauerkraut
A painter’s canvas
Plastic tubing
A block of cheese
2 5lb weights (one from each nostril)
A rolled up newspaper from 2016
6 popcorn kernels
part of an optical nerve
3 baby teeth
 my frontal lobe
 a live panther
a Christmas wreath
a box of tissues
a pot of gold

     Taco Baby

     Taco Baby chews the pits from avocadoes.
     Refries string beans on the hot sidewalk.
     Burns her feet.
     Squirms when the shopping cart collector
     rattles by says I just want to eat
     you all up pinches her blotchy pink
     wrist before snagging
     another quarter from the return slot.
     Taco Baby’s too round to run
     Cracks a cream soda sniffles
     on the curbside and thumbs the flyer
     for a better sale on probiotics.

Kate Hargreaves  | Windsor  ON |  2016

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