#duncan slagle

[llovelymoonn]

?? \\ duncan slagle father hunt: “ghazal for the loneliness that must have killed lilith”

support this blog

[lifeinpoetry]

The first time I let him see me

naked, I was no god. I shook like bone. I lied / still as gospel.

— Duncan Slagle, from “Surgery Dream (Incision),” published in The Adroit Journal

[clatteriing]

the bloodwhorl in the corners of every mirror, leashed to the backs of strangers, to shatter freight & notice hundreds of glimmering sisters in the fog, cut open by light. We who nettle the glare of curious men. With our nailbeds collapsed but red swiped over a valley unlike the site of our birth. Detached from the fog we grew our hunger in-tumult-hunger for a different body. They want your face but softer, less of your fur above the lip like another man's idea of you? Monster, to queer your violence or to mourn your violence the only way I know how? Queer. // My boss won't let me polish my nails unless I remain unshaven-to maintain balance. He worries about my sisters but headlines blur death in low visibility, going unnoticed like blood in red clay. Each morning is the same, a different stranger stares on my way to work & I bury my hands in my lap. Let my hunger vibrate like a wolf in her gown, while the men tear at her fur when they reach to touch.

Before the Skin Flooded Like a River With Hair & Left by Duncan Slagle

[upthestaircasequarterly]

Bless your tender                 fingers; a flood of want. Cheeks filled                 with bitter pith swallowed like fruit. Bless                 summer & spill its juice. The sheets we stain,                 we leave unwashed.

Duncan Slagle, “After, I Keep Everything that Reminds Me Of” in Up the Staircase Quarterly #41. 

[goreprofonde]

“Who dragged a freshly drained deer into the               shed then instructed me to remove the stomach.               Once I was in the heat of the beast, I ripped thick sinew, fat, & muscle by hand. Then he severed the heart’s tendons & touched                                              the cold organ to my cheek. This proximity like                                              a lead weight in my chest. He always wanted me to inherit                               his instinct, like musk on a body bag--                                                                                             death imagined &                                                                             then death administered & then death taken                                                                                            into the mouth. After placing the ribs in the oven to roast, I felt the gun like it tapped at the back of my skull,                                                                                           resented                                             my metal knowledge of its insides—how to cock a bullet & prepare the spark, how to line the sight on top of another body’s warmth,                                                                                             where to miss, so it                                                                                             suffers, & where to aim,                                                                                             so my hands stay clean-- the order of things; Domain, Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family—how a father can bend a son over his knee & redden—on the day of that deer,               in a rage, he grabbed my coat to clean               the hunting knife, threatening more, & I sobbed at that fresh mark               & I sob, still—like a bloodstain, I spill,               all over that                            graceless memory,                        our backs bent over the opened                                                           deer, arguing about how he ruined the heart, shrapnel proving the                                           bad shot, how funny, my loveless father playing god is a tradesman,            an expert in gut & exit, while I am prey                              before the meal, threatened with violence while I learned its scent,            left to wash the gunsmoke from my hair, to wonder how I’ll ever come up with an excuse             for the blood.”

- Duncan Slagle, Thankfully, I Have Never Taken After My Father.

[lifeinpoetry]

Desire builds me a rotten church to lay down in.

Duncan Slagle, from “Ghazal for the Loneliness that Must Have Killed Lilith,” FATHER HUNT

[buttonpoetry]

I step into the waves and become a bruised boy begging for loneliness

Duncan Slagle, “The Lighthouse Gives Up”

[lifeinpoetry]

Each morning is the same, a different stranger stares

on my way to work & I bury my hands in my lap. Let my hunger vibrate

like a wolf in her gown, while the men tear at her fur when they reach to touch.

— Duncan Slagle, from “Before the Skin Flooded like a River with Hair & Left,” published in BOAAT