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two poems

Madeleine Kruhly


Anklets, baby

for weight of the body

            heartbone and shoulder blade

                        sees you


as you are. suppling

            and being unwilling to supple.



the word, used only

            for putting a handle on wild



like sage. laying alone

            you are the shape of one line



twice. prickling for it

            but quietly, as you were told.



around to get your head

            right, ankles thick as simple



The devil wears your clothes


sometimes it comes down

            to a fake moon around

                        licks of air


and there goes the will to moan

            last night I tried to fool

                        my body


fought for limpness in the least

            strange of places a



who could blame me it was so

            bright and had been



down hard my shoulders began

            to seize up like cat’s



bolt eyes set firmly there are

            lots of ways to be



and I’m only looking for one

            of them always a



you know the shadow dressed

            in a black t-shirt says

                        I won’t


Madeleine Kruhly is a graduate of the Masters in Poetry programme at the University of East Anglia. Her poems have appeared in Ambit, THRUSH, and The Stockholm Review of Literature, and her criticisms published online for The Los Angeles Review of Books and The Economist. She currently lives in New York.