Poetry by Tayler Geiger
I. Form
When the person on the radio invites me into her heart
bleeding, I sing along because it’s a song about love
& about heartbreak. How could I not sing along to that?
Give me lyrics and you give me blueprints--as when
Las Vegas and China erected Eiffel Towers, so do I.
II. Mass
Here, the backfire of an exhaust pipe
is a throat opening, the sharp exhale
before a whisper that breaks you
like a windowpane. And then static
ringing dancing down the street. And
you, fingering for your keys at the door,
glancing at the mailbox, embracing
the smell of last night’s dinner like
a mother. An altar of take-out boxes.
III. When I Turn The Lights Off Before Bed
When I turn the lights off before bed
I look out the window at the city
And you: how could you stand by
and see me freeze? Holding, me
in the deep winter of a homesick eye,
stars. Scary how the best I can do
is stretch each limb in four directions.
As if my arms and legs were rope. As if,
When walking home I say anything to myself besides 'you'.
As in 'where you are', and 'don’t stop'.
IV. There Is A Whole World
There is a whole world.
I love the friends I have.
I am still not sure
which way to go.