Delivered in a forceful tone, this restless collection of poems charges head first into the conflicts between peace and anxiety, revenge and empathy, light and despair. Written by Katherine Wisniewski Carlsen, a Chicago native who got her start on poetry slam stages, Fire Belly Earth Feet serves up poems that are muddy, fiery, and brave.

Siren Call

Siren of Freedom,
come to me this time.

I've followed your call
through hours of corn fields.
I flew friendless
to a speck of land on this water planet.
I've spent thousands in smoky gas
driving away from four walls.
Then every time I settle,
I lose your vibrato trail
and develop a fever.

So I've disposed of every man to cool myself down.
I've packed and disappeared in ritual.
I fed only on options.

But I'm tired of starving for you, lonely tease.
I have too much I want to keep now.
So come to me this time.
Get off your rock and swim to my head to wash this panic off my brain.

New American Century

Along the river bank
where molten lava flows
far enough to cool
to a steady stream of oil,
I pan for thermite.

Saturated to the thighs in Pearlized mud,
we collect the sharp red chips they left behind.

Among the brave,
a person can calculate the pieces
as they coagulate in barrels,
building towards masses,
heating to a flash in time -
when we catch our fresh regret,
holding it so close and focused
we smell its pink mist breath -
the droplets resting on our palates
until a new need fuels us
to let it drop
and we wait to teach ourselves again.

Counting Electric Sheep

Within iambic bone the hamsters run
Within their greased conundrum lightning comes

Along a nerve to old projector wheels
Which turn as ranting critics ravish reels

And rush eight feet of prey nocturnal beasts
Who wish for distance but will only reach

The speed of sick sour lips who spit from pride
And hate inside the night where pictures hide

From common time and pleasant reason sleeps
To wake all breeds of beasts who will repeat
On screen the worst of movies worst of scenes
Within the carbon darkness far from sleep
Synaptic noise relentlessly repeats

Sibling Comfort For The Push Up Toy

When the spring gets stuck
from way too much
you laugh at my head on the floor.
You're not worried when you see my string.
But I worry about EVERYTHING
but trusting you.

I guess it could look scary to a sane brain;
the cackling of a chick going coo-coo -
her wooden parts collapsed and in the wrong place.
How can we glue her back together?

Only you know I'm already stuck.
So you just keep sitting next to me -
twirling the strings, spinning my pieces, laughing
beside the crackling yielding.