Ian Axel Anderson

Poetry

 

 

I. afternoon drought

 

we are the lingering corners
beneath the pine wood and

myrrh, the summer pictures

and scraps of her discarded dreams,

my arms tired from smithing the friendships

as they fray and make

unnameable ends,

we are lying still

like the flickers of grasshopper fingers

over the keys,

whispering against trust
we are weakening at the knees,

and the spine bends at the neck

while craning forward into the screen.

we listen to the slow drip of electrons

in the afternoon quiet

and the vibrations

of the air conditioner’s rusting mouth.

 

 

 

II. evening tide

 

twilight creeps in

with the gold dust,

and broken handles of windows
candle bulbs in our towers are

crossed by the weakening

dark and purple

we’re hearing the low shadows

and the breath

of the city in cotton

the ringing of the evening star

is loudest in the dimness

her matchbox beds

and cat's eye doors
are welcome mats of concrete

resting like open graves.

 

 

 

III. midnight ours

 

the night deadens, our hands

curl and the chest

seeks warmth 
the eyelash weakens against the thralls of sleep,

the inching at the neck

strung tight by the shoulder

blades struggles not to give in to fatigue,

we are dripping

in the cold of the air,

scratching at the stoop's foot, and there is red

on the mouths, fires in the bodies and

restlessness in her fingers

rolling up her thighs

stalling at the knees

the snails of lust entwining

in her tongue's gnarled branches.

 

 

 

IV. a wakening

 

the rust bends

and creases, darkening

on the limestone fingernails, 

sun and moonlight

wrapping us around one another,

sliding beneath the sheets—

we are risking the ivory whites and her seas of turquoise,

the slimming of hips and

the mouths widening,

fitting the lips to the teeth

and eyes to the socket ceilings,

this, the writhing stretch

the lengthening of the circuits

a tightening of the ribs and arching spines,

is the frothing of sleep, a rising

and a cautious placement of feet

on the hard wood floor.

 

 

 

V. daylights

 

our cracks are just

shower steam and

lightness,
sips of juices and the intake

of crinkling air in the

first cries of daylight's drops
the opening is fluid, driving us into the open mists,

deeper into her scalds, the trickles and

the bend of the toes into dove soap and plaster

brings heat into the veins, soaked in by my leathery

palms and the curling hairs, the day runs about our ankles

flitting in the breaking light, into the ease down the stairwells and

the stretching cords, there is calmness

in the shuffle of feet, a broil

in the first inhale of the waiting moments

time is stalking us—
poaching from the weariness and the dead feet

of skyscrapers,

eating the grass

drinking the sunshine, and

feeding 
on our slim bodies.

 

 

 

Ian Axel Anderson is a 24 year-old poet and marketing strategist living in Brooklyn, NY.  He is the author of “Death & Los Angeles” (2Rise Publishing, 2015) and performs his work regularly with the Poetry Brothel of New York City under the alias “Von Hohenheim.” Anderson was a member of Swarthmore College’s OASIS Slam Poetry team (placed 9th overall in the national competition) in 2012/2013, and has been writing poems for 7 years.  His first online publication - in DM - came in 2009, as a high school student in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and his first print publication occurred while at Swarthmore College in 2010.