Knar Gavin has just completed an MFA poetry at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her present focus
is on CotoR, a cycling-based collection of poems. She is currently city-hopping and will soon
settle, at least temporarily, in Seattle, WA. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Big
River Poetry Review
, the Hobo Camp Review and Bop Dead City.

Hawk Alert: 2:57 AM, April 28

Cortisol. I am in the factory. Here
are my cortisol hands. I make
then I eat. I make then dismantle
it, the morsels going down hard—
my own one animal, asteroids
pebbling through throat, gouging
little red beds with each swallow.

Gravity pull—these red rivers
I'm filling I swallow. Here in the
mercury to rise against sleep.


Unbuckle the corn belt? Get a nation
raining teeth. Crack of this clatter—corn cult
ure—we pearl-yellow the gum line away,
redden bottoms toward the equator.
This collective mouth turns all suck
for that certain syrup—these, our American heads
sprouting by the stalk—we strand, thick with it.

Strand to turn a braid. Upbraid Meat, Inc. for news on
how you might've starved if not for. For tax dollars
to spin that star
ch true. Gold grounds, we tortilla
our children in the very corn. Gold lava keeps us

busy-bee licking. See my bee tongue? It does my yellow for me.
Gets it in & we twist black. Sting once if the NAFTA jeans fit.

Le Blaireau
For Bernard Hinault

We are Badger. W
easel body. Here, stub-leg one
and here, two—see how they grind
—sharp thing on a swivel, big gear.
We are teeth, you see—even bloodied we
scramble out of the ravine
to gorge the stage.

We boar and we sow—
yellow and spit to snarl the Coke
out of your hand. Have
left the farm to savage
in mountains. Then come down from it,
all that red-lip curling our mouths tired.
Sure, we ate. Even that first

American. Le monde est grand. So many bodies
to try, seasoned by alternate flags.

At O' Bay

A sound is a large bay, one with bight.
At O' Bay—the very mouthy bits. A
thick tongue battling a thin one. A
coil necking a coil. O', with a bit
more growl you could be Donkey Sound—
sound out the lengths of your reach.

Remember water-lung? Dog-lapping your long haul
in the locker room, far from from the principle, untouched.
It's only good if it glides and that glider's interest.

Belly-up on the bleachers, pony-down in the dirt—that's
investment. O' Bay: muling away the hours to keep us from tariff.

Can I not lay inside you
like a lump sum. A trove sunk
against its own elimination.

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