Madeline Gilmore
September
Originally published in Bluestem.
Lately it has been all sun
without the euphoria. Pale
flowers on the table.
In Kyoto, some trees are so old
they are spirits, bound
in ornamental rope, speaking
almost, from the frogs chirping
in the shady part of the forest.
In my apartment, even the AC
whirr cannot keep my plants alive,
even the impression of your body
on my mattress a dying spell.
When blacksummer rolls around,
I find myself once again
standing barefoot in my kitchen,
offering you what little I have.
I am wretched at the gate of the shrine.
Even the frogs could drown me.
Please, stay a while.
Let me wrap you like a cord.
Let me help you with your screenplay:
force the family out of their beds.
It’s about division. They will see
the lighting strike the house.
Please
finalist for the Knightville Poetry Contest by the New Guard
I picked the werewolf
double feature, and now
you regret letting me decide
anything. Even here
in the anonymous dark
of the theater, I can tell
you are making that pinched face
I hate, so I turn to you and say,
“Please, would you just notice
what’s really at stake? It’s the fact
that people would choose
to be werewolves if it weren’t
for all the morning-after guilt,”
and you shake your head
and I sink farther in my seat, staring
blankly at the full moon rising
above some simulated misty moor,
unable to appreciate the sheer beauty
of man transforming into beast.
How exquisite it must be
to finally master the art
of losing your mind,
to tremble with the urge to devour
all that had once called you by name.
