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Dave Harrity's writing has appeared in Verse Daily, Memorious, Revolver, The Los Angeles Review, Copper Nickel, Confrontation, Softblow and elsewhere. Author of three books, his most recent are These Intricacies (Cascade Books, 2015) and Our Father in the Year of the Wolf (Word Farm, 2016). The recipient of an Al Smith Fellowship from the Kentucky Arts Council and a William Alexander II and Lisa Percy Fellowship recipient from the Rivendell Writers’ Colony, he lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife and children. Reach out via daveharrity.net.

David Harrity

3 Poems
That lorikeet is ovulating—you shouldn't touch her.



But what if she comes to me? Sips honey from my paper cup?

What if she desires touch, nearing without request or enticement?

Dave Harrity
3 Poems

In the New Age of Eroticism

That lorikeet is ovulating—you shouldn't touch her.

But what if she comes to me? Sips honey from my paper cup?

What if she desires touch, nearing without request or enticement?

Well, have you ovulated?

Obviously not, since it's impossible—biologically speaking.

You're impossible, biologically. You & your finger swing.

You & your stupid nectar. You & your unsaid expectations of experience.

What do you mean? I'm just trying to feed them.

Don't touch her is what I said—she's getting ready.

Fusiform

After Hiroo Onoda

I desire my face

as it was before.

Twenty-eight years

of hiding is a bowl

of wilted fronds to eat

tomorrow. Who is

the enemy now? In dark

or dusk: this very coast.

I am all wet sand

or all tickertape. I

stopped hearing con-

jugation a decade ago;

the war isn’t over—

victory is only

another womb.

Split it at the center

with your thumb

& spindle fear from

incredulity, creamy

pulp into new denial.

It’s edible enough.

To this day I wipe

blood & mother’s milk

from my lips & eyes.

Bull Market

To our household in financial crisis, I've contributed in small ways—

credit debt, an unattended portfolio—but more concerning

than my desires to be a sound provider are the nuanced risks of being

your only lover, the most intense of which I made recently in shaving

my pubic hair over the commode with your ex's plugin razor.

I didn't feel any less a man for the modern convenience or context;

I don't know—maybe even more for the potential shock, but I have no

certainty about it now. Each mow upward drifted a new nest

on the water, portion of the hedge that took some time to grow. This is

the predicted inflation about which I've heard so much. I didn't pay

a bill or check the stock activity before we went to bed, but I knew,

by this small investment, that you knew—finally—I was too big to fail.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Dave Harrity

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

The Mausoleum of Lovers: Journals 1976-1991 by Hervé Guibert,

Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari,

Egypt From Space by Beckian Fritz Goldberg

Who is someone you admire who does work that you feel really benefits your community, and what kind of work is it that they do?

I think the Squallis Puppeteer are doing some interesting work. They are a regular fixture in theaters, schools, and public acts of civil disobedience in Louisville and beyond—you never know where they’ll pop up and how they’ll help you re-imagine a situation. Plus, the puppets—strange and delightful.

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