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.