Poems by Amy Collier

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Aquarium

by Amy Collier

From Canary Spring 2017

Amy was born in the middle of five Great Lakes and now lives on pudding stone that is rising up at a very gradual rate.

Among a school of workers
funneling into the train
commuting to or from
a many windowed building
I think of
age eleven
the Monterey Aquarium.
I see tuna shooting through
a cylindrical display
in a liquid silver ring
above my head
and the plaques tell me
to fish it's all the same.
The bluefin's happiness
is 40 mph. We have
tricked their perception
of place and distance.




In Spiral Arms

by Amy Collier

From Canary Summer 2017

Worlds erupt in your mind
with each new word
as you toddle the bright
black grass of the backyard;
planets pop into existence
and orbit infinitely on
the channels of your thoughts
like the bumblebees you point to.
I stargaze at the meteors
you pour into my hand
as you mumble the names
of your galaxies.
You were once a question
mark curled in ether:
your body, swirled into itself
with a tangerine glow, uterine
in the womb of a universe
like the small snail shell
you have placed
in my palm.




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