FROM THE SIREN INTERPRETATIONS

who brought theater to the party?

was it pulled from      the bottom      of the ice as a
floor      is it masque     is it a glimmer       a      soft
nape of dirt water    is    it   where you wish to rest
your    tongue    is it    how attracted you are   to it
is it        the salt that hits the bud                is it     a
conversation stenched      is it       your tongue flat
flat on its power flat     flat on top or on bottom is
is it a switch is      is it     the      unassuming vellus
that stands     for you  croaked   target are you up

        are you looking to submit      are you felt hot
ly   wrung      are you a long tasting              itself a
language     is it     the flaccid         fangs of choice
you find so                                                   of worth

is it the trench coat opened      it is        shriveled
illusions           of flexibility     stacked      on each
others shoulders      it is            i s     i t             a n
apparitionist   is it  felted shape my naive surface

     is a bushel soft     is a thought a thing        is it
presence      is it loons     fucking in duets      in a
dance       with Gertrude Stein         who brought
theater to the party?

II.

What party?
Where do I go to not get there?

I’m not the one with a fear of snakes, Joan
is. Take a prairie grass between the tongue.

I’m too small to know I am a hill (avoidant take)

The angle of affected light draped across the pasture
across the driftless skipping over the country road
a culprit of something beyond the terrestrial or more
likely the lifted interest of a tiktok a pickled bend
attuned to the presence of ice beneath the pond a bro-ish
wail of approval a voice still come adrift (from the
red-winged moon) 19.2 fluid ounces of spread ...

Even in this little city we go fishing as cowards!
Pulled up and into buoyant misfigures docked May to
October not at all a fish out of shit water but like an
extension of a mammal only peripherally aware of when
and why it floats.
With enough romance the angle
will make Horicon Marsh glow but if you turn on the
overhead we see an oil painting of meat.

III.

The angle lay in a little thicket,
a little marsh.

The angle muses alone,
meaningless and pleased.

The angle is quaint chic,
the angle has a farm fetish.

The angle is apathetic!

No no,
shhh,
the angle is sleeping.

Annie Grizzle is a poet from Milwaukee. Her chapbook I Wake With Eyes The Sound of Nectarines was published by Ursus Americanus Press in 2023.