G-NT3806KSJP

[o] (from The End of the Alphabet)

   




the caviar’s o-shaped home, mimicking and magnifying the salt-cured
roe, not home as home is home, but home as the body’s container,

not body as body is body, but body as part-object, as breast is part-
object and part of the orthography of desire; the nacre spoon
echoing necro, as if a secretion is a death, what is sent outside of

oneself, an odor undetectable by one’s own nose; the o-shaped cap

of death cap mushrooms and false death caps, the o-shaped cap
of the club-footed clitocybe and the brown roll-rim, the o-shaped

cap of the burnt pancake of the forest, the red cracking bolete,
compared with the sheathed woodtuft, a topographic map clinging
to tree stumps, compared with the parasitizing giant polypore;

the stretched o of the toilet’s seat and the delight of drinking

water at the same time as releasing water, a circuit; once, on
Oregon’s coast, near Devil’s Kitchen or Devil’s Punchbowl or

Devil’s Backbone, the off-white skull of a cormorant, the body
a display case waiting to be emptied, the skull now an ornament
beneath a globe of an antique earth; the oldest globe of the New

World engraved upon the conjoined halves of an emptied ostrich

egg, the engravings around the equator obscured by glue, the sphere
itself imperfect; an oval face in an oval mirror ostensibly softening

a square room; ouzo selected over limoncello or chartreuse only
because it has a cloud to coax out, a maid-less water-made milk;
see also the rice-envy of orzo, the puddle-envy of the orgy, pure

melt, an oboe parading as a more or less beautiful duck, see oleo;

oakum obtained by untwisting old rope becoming other than rope;
what one seeks out to make herself, too, impenetrable, unimpreg-

nable, an old self shed and repurposed like oakum, soul-caulked,
if ensouled; octane and other hydrocarbons, the cigar-shaped
molecule of octane described as caterpillar-shaped; methane, butane;

high-octane fuels exist, fuels and the obliteration of engine knock;

octane and the invention of an agency for environmental protection;
ovations for innovations; outgoing breath riding the back of in-taken

breath, like, in the outback, a koala emerged from pouch to mother’s back;
the Northern Lights inside an opal if not inside an autumn night



Kristi Maxwell is the author of eight books of poems, including Goners (Green Linden Press, 2023), winner of the Wishing Jewel Prize; My My (Saturnalia Books, 2020); Realm Sixty-four (Ahsahta Press, 2008), editor’s choice for the Sawtooth Poetry Prize and finalist for the National Poetry Series; and Hush Sessions (Saturnalia, 2009), editor’s choice for the Saturnalia Books Poetry Prize. She’s an associate professor of English at the University of Louisville and a 2022-23 American-Scandinavian Foundation Fellow. Kristi holds a PhD in Literature & Creative Writing from the University of Cincinnati and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Arizona.