Anthony Hagen
Earphone

There is evidence of me
that must be destroyed. Being
adrift in clean air wearies
each tree and grass leaf. I must
plug every trace that any of this
is interwoven. (I love you
more than the triumph
of talk snaking up my cheek
and into my ear.) Where were you
when I needed you most: the breeze,
louder than anything. On a day
I cannot firmly recall, you told
me this: "Everyone has moments
in life when they feel dimly
unaware. That is no excuse
not to listen, although the choice
is yours." Wisdom was never
your strength, but I stayed inside
for you regardless. The scenery
faded into both of us. No one
can find my breath, yet I heard you
follow. The first sound
was the silence of your return.

There Are Times for Selfless Action

The window melds around the lake,
and I have complied properties of glass.

There are no solid forms, only liquids that remain
at peace. Through the water of an iris,

obscured dewdrops wed themselves
to grass. The communion of saints

laid down with the leaves: mourning,
you took root. Your hands are wires

choking trees; your voice is maddening
as the rain. You knelt on top of needles

for me, betrothed me to the sky, yet I squirmed
away. I threw stones at the door.

Your red gums chafed as you straightened
my teeth. Stains on the kitchen counter

framed your portrait. Moss balms the wound.
I asked you for an ounce of substance,

and you heaved all states of matter at me.
Bathe yourself. There was sunrise

yielding steam crowning the porch; by evening,
we were intoxicated. You brought me in.

Suppose everything turned to plasma tomorrow.
How could I proffer a simple cause for full moons?

Smashed in backyard bins lie slim shards of statues
once prized and polished daily. A rose

by any other name is still your skin. You broke
each piece you loved, without intention.

A distant purplish haze cast its sights upon
the unmown lawn, growing closer

every time you cleared the sink. The bruise, hanging
maudlin on the morning drizzle,

welcomed day: the day you promised
to bequeath me something; the day

it slipped around your neck and cracked
your thumbnail; or, perhaps, the day

we couldn't see two feet ahead of us.
The day you drew faces on the foggy glass,

to make me laugh. The faces never spoke; their eyes
were dots, their mouths small lines. Clearing,

they melted back into the glossy pane,
only to remain outside, within the seam.

The sun was out. You wrote words never
read: they fled, hidden from the day,

melted into cloth, transcribed
upon a scrawl of mist.

_ _

Anthony Hagen was born in Fairfax, Virginia in 1993. His poetry has appeared in Bird's Thumb and DeminSkin. He lives in Roanoke, Virginia, where he is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Hollins University. Connect with him on Facebook.

Back to Issue 19, 2016