2 Poems | Candice Wuehle


vince, i could see the world without its edges.

i placed an empty woolen glove

across my naked lap not to remind anyone

of being handled, but to remind them of bonelessness.

To show how easily anything can be turned

inside out. Spread across an unsunned body,

a tanned hand belies the filth of light. Becomes

its own glove of damage done

by exposure. Freckled witness, gothic romance.

The heroine wears a large medallion like an angel

wears a body—a silver snare

that loops her back into the world of lines. vince,

it’s because it’s easier

to think over a figure divided, to

organize into erotic zones, to make

a tattoo that goes:

and here is naked and here is naked. Heretical adorn

ment. Once a vulnerable

fence has been built, i can name the insides. i wound

my hair around and around to make it obvious that they could

ccut the braid at its base but i would still

be braided. i would still have the word

b r a i d. i mean the extra

embellishments make the emptiness, make the model

more bare, make it feel more to be touched. i sit on

my hands and feel the empty glove. Sure, it makes it easier

to imagine his keyed fingers.

It makes the materials of the world the bars

of a song being alive is the same as singing.


Girl in the fashion library chewing

chocolates and spitting. A reel re wo und , alive on

only film. On a slick of cocoa,

the aftermath of wa x.

A stage set seen from the side

is diagramatic of how the world plays. Invisible

drapery between the watched world and the w


Ignore the idea of observing

from above. Don’t make the girl a specimen

in a godded petri dish. To

understand bacteria, become bacterial.

The projector’s beam is blended into our light

by dust. D irty image. To understand, i swallow

strings and strings of lights. i become the orb

in between.

An artist’s life is about eating, is about the twisted

constellation inside the stomach. Is glowing

metabolized. You really are

here. You can wear the curtain that cuts you off

from the bulbs like it is a bridal

gown. vince, you can get married to a tthing

they say doesn’t even exist. You can make a promise

to yourself.

Candice Wuehle is the author of the full-length collection BOUND (Inside the Castle Press, August 2018) and the chapbooks VIBE CHECK (Garden-door Press, 2017), EARTH*AIR*FIRE*WATER*ÆTHER (Grey Books Press, 2015) and curse words: a guide in 19 steps for aspiring transmographs, (Dancing Girl Press, 2014). Poems from her collection, DEATH INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, appear in Best American Experimental Writing 2020, Black Warrior Review, The Bennington Review, and The New Delta Review. She is originally from Iowa City, Iowa and is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Candice currently resides in Lawrence, Kansas where she is a Chancellor’s Fellow at The University of Kansas.