Three Poems by V. S. Ramstack

These three poems by V.S. Ramstack aim to highlight the idiosyncrasies of love and addiction that often define the plight of being a human….

by: V.S. Ramstack

september sky

i see your bright body in the trees,
the leaves that kiss my windowsill in the morning
i’ve woken with the expectation that life
will grab me by the wrists only to fling
me into a salted abyss and there is no remedy 
for such a sweet, consistent fear

a dying bird flickering quietly across 
the pavement, its small burst of green
feathers a testament to what still breathes
and i want to be like that breath, like that
with you, tender in all our mistakes

your hands aglow, big moons &
silver rings, are reaching for mine
and you are laughing, you are dancing 
along the shoreline, and it is in this way 
we manage to save each other

everything about the color yellow

i think of jaundice swirling at the bottom of my foot. i 
could take it down with a left hook or succumb slowly 
with shin splints. there’s a halogen bulb in my throat, 
bile rising, to the lightest level of irony

if i tell you about cages & canaries & all that sings, 
remember there’s still a bathtub of piss waiting at the 
end. let it run down the leg, soak through the socks, 
kindred spirit in the corner whispering in sunflower 
tongue

hope? what of it – i have three mild american spirits 
left and they treat me alright. i steer these handlebars 
with my knees, vintage banana bicycle seat, lemon 
pepper thrown over my shoulder, intrepid kiss 

loose stitch

i clenched my teeth last night
so hard i could feel you
crawling out of my molars
and down my arm as a poem
the way alice walker once described
she said, please: notice ducks and i must 
admit i haven’t done this yet

pull my legs up pretzel-like 
on the couch and count the myriad 
ways to be unfinished
i’m not saying it’s fun – i’m saying 
i still bury the mandible inward 
but i like to imagine there’s a human in me 
that moves outward and knows 

i’m in love with the way we mourn
in moon, something like a baptism 
not the water speaking for the face, 
nor the legs aching to be continents,
but rather the dirt infested with soil mites –
because it was a gift and the
bow was so beautiful

V. S. Ramstack is a Pisces, a selective extrovert, and an avid crier. Besides poetry, she enjoys cats, flowers, and checking out too many books at the library. She received her MFA from Columbia College Chicago. Previous work can be found in Curator Magazine, Posit, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere.