Kristen Keckler

Pharmacy

After Joseph Cornell

The doctor humors

my weekly visits with

apothecary prescriptions

before I can ask:

what is the remedy

for a golden peach heart

sucked clean of its

sweet mesocarp?

I accept another squat jar,

this one containing

your almond-shaped pit,

its twisted bumpy bark

protecting my creative

potential. Inspect my vials—

your sun-flecked seashell

hugging my seasnail flesh

the marbles of past moons

marked on my calendar,

the rich cocoa hint in

a pink tinfoil wrapper,

the cicada nymph's 3D clone

of its outgrown self,

a carpenter's corkscrew

shavings—all strangely us.

The copper wire cloud

is a thought bubble

we untangle like each other's

lingering funks.

I uncork the genie

in its blue potion, drinking

the view from the island

we built with pebbles and words,

animate the ping pongs

of our atoms, the shimmery pool

of glitter into stardust,

the crimson feather

from a fedora, a dancer,

or the swift bird of your hand

tracing the polka-dotted dress—

all stored in my cabinet,

its mirror multiplying

the debris of memories

that lovesick thrifters

secretly repurpose.

A Box for Tilly Losch

After Joseph Cornell and William Cartwright

Being tangled up

with you

feels like living

inside a cello case

lined with red velvet,

hidden and mutually

bound

by corset threads

we slowly unravel,

skin underneath

slick and supple

as our mouths—

Remembering this, I climb

from sex to soul,

from soul to thought,

levitating

like a hummingbird

beside its petunia

trumpet.

Or maybe like dancers

hover

a stadium stage,

their intricate pullys

invisible.

Barely swaying,

my skirt poofs

a hot air balloon

buoyed by gusts

of helium,

an apple at my waist

for equilibrium.

I'll eat it

from the core

out, admiring

the uninhabited

mountains grooved

by millennia

of melting ice

and powdered-sugar

snow.

Coming down

would be brutal—

an addict, I'd be sick

for days—

so I train my brain

to replay

the private scene

from our indie film:

the two of us carving

a philtrum path

around the peak's

wide apron

into an alternate world

of safe

exposure

where I'm still hanging,

witnessing every hue

of sky the birds do,

while the moose beyond

clack

their epic racks

like joyful thunder.

Kristen Keckler teaches at Mercy University in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Her work has appeared in Sky Island Journal, The Disappointed Housewife, As It Ought To Be, Cutleaf, Collateral, Main Street Rag, and other journals. She can be found rummaging around garage sales, on the lookout for unexpected treasures.