Tarot Cards on a Catholic School Playground
We shouldn’t be doing this –
making angel paths to open sewage holes, priest holes
The Lovers and The Fool, debauching
near a fallen birds’ nest
amidst rain-ruined chalk suns
and the shadows of our skirts
bells ring loud as we leave The Hangman behind –
with arms outstretched, can hug an entire continent
There Must Be Something That Rhymes With Bones
I once lived in a house
embraced by ivy
with a clothesline rattling with bones.
The noises evoked a
a hollow wind chime conducted by
the occasional breeze.
Ribcages rang loud
if hammered by a finger bone.
Remember when organs were instruments, too?
I heard the stomach was once heralded as a bagpipe.
If all of this was true,
why couldn’t I play music
or perform a sonnet
with my body?
Since then, I always envied that clothesline
which hung outside my house.
Corn Husk Dolls
Voodoo Child –
wobbling newborn horses, the uncertain Puritan
is laid out for all to see, even the highborn chief
pays his respects
in armfuls of casino claw machines, dusk perfume
and half-savage sacrificial dolls
who genuflect from miniature feeding chairs,
bonnets, ribbons, and all –
cowherd bayonets mounted on knotted hand
all-seeing eyes of dried capers, fastened tight
Arielle Tipa is a writer based in New York whose work has been featured in Alien Mouth, Mirror Dance, thread, and FIVE:2: ONE Magazine, among others. She currently works as a writer on Long Island.