Wednesday, March 27, 2013

from “The Escapist,” by Jennifer Mackenzie (forthcoming in issue 22)


Morning, horse-breath disturbing
the cold air inside the cup

Wake up my fellow gardenia
dry feet & hatred terrified
of my heart, I can’t do anything

about it if everything I showed you
was a further kind of concealment 

Sockmouth. Castles of trout. What is
they are me. The shoes around the faces
of the dead. This one has no head

& above the darkness of old table
wood the cardsharper’s hands sprout pink
splitting buds. Terror as a god of indolence

One wicked Indian alone in the weather
knowing the sign for love

but what does it mean. I the loath dirigible
sadness never as improvised as one feels

Closing the book in the cold-lashed
pewter afternoon—Breton!

—envy is joy
—no, exultation 

No comments:

Post a Comment