person Kerry Trautman, three poems

Ohio born and raised, Kerry Trautman is a founder of ToledoPoet.com and the “Toledo Poetry Museum” page on Facebook. She is a poetry editor for Red Fez, and she participates poetry readings and events such as Artomatic 4-1-9, Back to Jack (Toledo’s annual Jack Kerouac reader’s theater,) and the Columbus Arts Festival. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Midwestern Gothic, Alimentum, The Coe Review, Slippery Elm, and Mock Turtle Zine; as well as in several anthologies such as, Mourning Sickness (Omniarts, 2008), Resurrection of a Sunflower (Pski’s Porch Press, 2017,) and Delirious: A Poetic Celebration of Prince (NightBallet Press, 2016.) Her poetry chapbooks are Things That Come in Boxes (King Craft Press, 2012,) To Have Hoped (Finishing Line Press, 2015,) and Artifacts (NightBallet Press, 2017.)

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~Dysmorphia~

This junk-drawer carting my delicious
brain around, my heart, my working hands,
other used-to-be-useful bits.
Conveying things I don’t intend.

There is Mulholland Drive on tv, then
there is the tv itself.

One two three four
step two three four
never does my body whirl in
proper dancing rhythm, but it
lumbers this way and that.

It’s some miracle when my abdomen
shudders with weeping, because for once
I and my body unite.

There is Mulholland Drive on tv, then
there is Los Angeles itself.

Fluids and solids pass in and out
sometimes including blood.

There is the eggshell splashed
with chicken shit, then
there is the beautiful goo of
omelets or genoise.

One two three four
turn two three four
never will my muscles push the
rest of me in unison with
someone else I’m watching.

There is Mulholland Drive on tv, then
there is Naomi Watts herself.

There is this sack of slush ambling
between my rooms, then
there is the RAM,
then there is a zodiac,
creases across palms,
something else.

//\\

~Body as Bird as Body~

As a wren, she shrunk into shrubbery.
But not as wren—
no brief wings to shudder skyward.

As a starling, she insinuates herself
into murmurations, a lost-ness of black
on blue on black on blue.

As a barn owl, imperceptible
shadows in rafters.
But not as owl—not sparing the meat.

As a heron, twiggy stillness
sculpturing, obvious above
duckweed and cattails.

As a peahen, beige
full of eggs
behind blue fans of eyes.

As a wren, air barely
exerts beneath.
But not as a wren—of soil.

*previously published in Common Threads, OH Poetry Association Press, 2017

//\\

~After “When we think to ourselves that we’re alone,” by Athena Kildegaard~

I doubt that I would feel comfort,
company among

the mushrooms of a forest floor,
among those sexy spores

and their particular brand
of tenacity,

of survival, waywardly willing
to cloud themselves and settle

anywhere, by any footfall
carcass or puddle.

I’m not so sure I wouldn’t see death
in them—my death

or more so that impudent
continuance afterward, that constant

re-spore-ing and spread from dark under,
from where I am to where I once was.

//\\

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