Bailey Schaumburg

3 Poems

dream speech

the bridge. fecal matter. the blinds.

the stove. the flower. the shrub.

the dynamo, silk-laden hand of your brain, doling punishment

for the way

you do your day.

or.

when you and your sister were children, you “fished”

in the front yard. you had the poles, the bait,

the tackle box.

it seems harrowing, to speak solely in the tongue of dreams

and memories. like the wrong way

to live a life.

like all you’re missing

is the fish,

and water.

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hidden mouth

it’s monday, the day disguised

as a storm. the cool of hidden mouth,

opening only in secret. i wonder all the time

about poets, how they always seem

so uncertain and so sure, destroying

and fixing something in tandem. the dam

breaks, there is no stopping the speeches

and the ideas about corn, the greens

sprouting out in strange places, growing

their own wee brains. poets don’t have wings,

but plants do. their blades pulling out

like the fraying hem of the world. mistaking

nothing for nothing, giving back what’s

naturally requested and given.

a deer and three birds

streamlined and traipsing. a doe in the path of some birds. ahead to the right, a building dies. it cowers in the light, a vision for astrologists. here comes the first bird. a gull in the face of the deer. due to sidelong eyes and an overshot flight path, an awkward encounter. gruffy, fluttering, fervent, over. the previously mentioned building, home to piano and woman. she grows pink-fleshed  pineapple on the top floor, they mold and the building turns to sugar. the second bird. wingspan black and agape, it meets the doe at the heart of her face, then vanishes in the collapsible velvet folds of the sky. two riders rip out from the rear of the building on horseback. one has control, the other whips like an infected banshee. out toward another distance they peel, that’s all for them. to the third bird, now. the most apical beak, the peakest talons. a heroic wingspan, freckled with human assumption. it doesn’t approach the deer at all. careening the gaze of the story, it lands in some brush alongside. it’s crimson. pure crimson. and wild as hell.

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​Bailey Schaumburg

What are 2-3 books (regardless of genre) that you’ve read over the last year or less that really blew your hair back?

Yes! This thrills me.

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I read letter to his father by Franz Kafka which was an unexpected choice for me. And it was a peculiar reading experience. As far as autobiographical materials go, I think it is simultaneously typical and rare, inclusive and isolating. It was odd to read this particular author evoking the all-too familiar feelings of, “Fuck you, Dad!” and, “But, I love you, Dad!” I rolled my eyes. And I laughed. And I cried, a little. The text feels historically important in its form and vulnerability, and it also feels a bit…silly. Overall, I’m kind of stumped about it. And that keeps me thinking about it.

Homesick For Another World by Ottessa Moshfegh is tasty. Seriously. The stories feel delicious; as in, I would eat them if I could. This was a second reading of it for me and it hit harder than it did the first time. It resonates deeply in the usual and the lame, the magic of being alone and gross and beautiful.

My partner and I like to bop around St. Louis thrift stores and look at books. I picked up a copy of Henry Miller’s long short-story, the smile at the foot of the ladder. It’s excellent. I dream now of being a clown.

What did you want to be when you grew up, if not a writer / educator?

A coroner. I did an independent study when I was fifteen or sixteen, and went to the local hospital where a medical investigator gave me a tour of the morgue. He showed me photographs of dead bodies. There was one photo in particular that stays with me. It changed the way I feel when I’m in a bathtub.

What is your biggest / weirdest fear?

For a few years as a young child, I had a reoccurring dream that took place at a water-park. Since then, I’ve been terrified of being eviscerated on a waterslide. Also, crocodiles scare the shit out of me.