Carve out the Eyehole

I kiss that cold space on your cheek,

a corner of light. I am on top

so it feels like I have the dick.

Feels good, right?

Waves froth and rise up inside me.

I close one eye, and see

the bridge of my nose,

as if looking out of a face,

my face. I feel the ribbon

tied behind my ears.

I am a mask, my sockets seeing

a reflection in the window:

rolling hills like a Grant Wood painting,

trees like an artichoke’s leaves

at the birthplace of Herbert Hoover.

Texture brings me closer to a tumble,

to absolution, the waves.

A church both rubber and angular

is what paint is. Art

out of some renaissance brain

but anachronistic, rounded edges 

of history and the night,

which is made of dark pigment and light.

You smell like coffee. You

grind up on me. What is

the etymology of Dilly Bar? We

only go to DQ with the hand-painted signs,

only order Dickel whiskey for the rhyme.

Glad I got home before the thunder,

before the rain.

Stopped to take pictures

with police cruisers at the street’s corner.

The park is grass raised

to invisible borders.

Often textures in my mind:

the smooth meat of my brain

grating against the fibres of carpet,

these twisting fabrics veer inside.

Of static you can feel

in your gut, flipped, my knees doubled

over, and folded into self. Love

I love my body it helps me see.

Cassidy McFadzean’s poems have appeared in CV2, Vallum, The Fiddlehead, Arc and Carousel. JackPine Press published her chapbook Farwell in 2012, and in 2013 she was a finalist for the Walrus Poetry Prize and CBC Poetry Prize. Born in Regina, Cassidy is currently an MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.