EARTH ANGEL AT THE MAG BAR
I might have fallen at Magnolia Street’s Mag Bar after Reed and Dolls,
darts and shots following Merwin’s reading at Spalding U, so damn profound,
so many years living as an angel on Earth counting down the holiness of the days.
Oh choir of one. A postcard from Anchorage behind the bar above the Bombay
Sapphire exposes the white wonder of the Arctic fox, hunting on the open spire-less
snow. I’m thinking this tavern might be some kind of tundra until a man named
Mio tries to sell me a rose and instead, I offer to dance with him, the gin and lime
warming me up. I swear, I can hear a song playing from somewhere about a man
who brings his lover flowers, who brings his lover the moment that preys on her heart.
darts and shots following Merwin’s reading at Spalding U, so damn profound,
so many years living as an angel on Earth counting down the holiness of the days.
Oh choir of one. A postcard from Anchorage behind the bar above the Bombay
Sapphire exposes the white wonder of the Arctic fox, hunting on the open spire-less
snow. I’m thinking this tavern might be some kind of tundra until a man named
Mio tries to sell me a rose and instead, I offer to dance with him, the gin and lime
warming me up. I swear, I can hear a song playing from somewhere about a man
who brings his lover flowers, who brings his lover the moment that preys on her heart.
SLIGHT
I’m sorry, did I forget to live a little more?
Was I too busy to be here, peevish keys
beneath my fingers, thumping those words,
thumbing the space bar, my neck tight, eyes
shut, hearing the swoosh of the heat pump
on a March morning when you whooshed
right out of my life, backspace, backspace,
backspace, enter, fingers moving again, head
tilted down, touching some uncommitted other--
listening for the tap of wings at the window
Was I too busy to be here, peevish keys
beneath my fingers, thumping those words,
thumbing the space bar, my neck tight, eyes
shut, hearing the swoosh of the heat pump
on a March morning when you whooshed
right out of my life, backspace, backspace,
backspace, enter, fingers moving again, head
tilted down, touching some uncommitted other--
listening for the tap of wings at the window
Header art by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH YVONNE:
Yvonne Morris has been published in a variety of print and online journals. She is Associate Editor of The Heartland Review and is a Staff Instructor at Elizabethtown Community and Technical College in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Her first chapbook, Mother was a Sweater Girl, was published in 2016 and is available on Amazon.com. Read more about her online at https://www.theheartlandreview.com.
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