Issue 11, December 2013
{ You're My North }
by Amy King
This is no romantic thing, but I 
was headed deep into the shotgun sunset 
tonight, orange flints off reds 
and sun maneuvers across Ray Bans and felt 
the tug towards Texas, where you're spinning 
around with your teaching things 
and eating stuff that becomes your brain 
and that mineral body I held
once, when I got to thinking how 
I am the coffee filter to your media, how you 
liked me partly for the attentions 
I raised, and then it crystallized 
(wine intensifies): 
I'm ready to Skype you, like you, 
lick, fondle and cruise you - every which way 
but loose. My solar plexus began pulling south 
to you, my north, and this reflects 
molecular implications.  I know you don't know 
me the way we are daily, but the way we long 
today is a newfangled calibration 
of bridge to tunnel to psyche 
to being that burns with the distance we saddle 
and brings us to other dimensions 
that even the greatest Michio Kakus 
can't explain, but not for lack 
of ethereal guessing.  Right now, 
you're downing a prettypink lemonade tequila, 
if only in fantasy at the dinner for your niece 
deep in the heart of Houston, checking 
your phone for an echo of me, noting 
your north is shifting your chair, 
pulling you east. 
   

Of her most recent book from Litmus Press, I Want to Make You Safe, John Ashbery described Amy King's poems as bringing "abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living." Safe was one of the Boston Globe's Best Poetry Books of 2011. The Missing Museum is forthcoming in 2014 from Kore Press. King also teaches English & Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College, co-edits Poets for Living Waters, and works with VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.