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poem from the may stars
god how many tears have i cried drops in the gaze of arcturus sad, hot rain in conversation with jupiter the chill-hard rules you decided on without my consent. you were suddenly gone but spica and the moon in a may’s eve dance a rotation of centuries that flee while they last. us in a…
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the mouse
it was after work some weeks ago, and i’d skipped out at 4.45pm on friday with plans to meet my cousin and her daughter for a special dinner at the oxo tower. they were visiting from california, and it is a rare treat when a member of my family is both wonderful and kindred enough…
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poem from the social
you invented a fantasy invited me in a world of mysteries where we’d swirl, just us, away from the world, just us two interlopers lost and found – in the lyrics of a bedsit poet. were these your lies my delusions they’d say maybe they’re right but on an evening of soft light where the…
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poem from a high hard sleeper
swirls of red dust grey mountain line non-descript and, above, some black clouds threaten. an engineering marvel they always say utility poles, wires, disrupt dirt and thousands of li of green fence. two ladies in the berth opposite watching loud chinese soaps on a mobile while i drink an imported IPA bought in xining. more…
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guanyin and longshan temple
taipei. humid. a final day, and with no plans, where to go and what to do? it’s an easy choice. the city (and the island for that matter) is stocked with temples: buddhist, taoist, a mix of folk traditions. big colourful, scary-looking gods guarding doorways. and goddesses, lingering in shadowy halls. like guanyin. guanyin is…
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the telemarker
it was your head. cocked glasses, aquarian smile bag dropped casual-like on a desk, too old for the skater look you were affected but smart and god i loved it the boy with the arab strap comes on now and instantly i’m there 11pm, 2004, october something. we took apart and rebuilt an old VCR…
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mud
slurp. that sound. there is nothing quite as unsettling as the sound of mud. boots struggling through it. slop slop slopping. a momentary stuckedness, then the unsuctioning of a boot bottom and, with it, the noise. there is nothing that a desert flower detests more than mud. i can assure you, being one. i’m not saying…
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poem of highway 14
it bucketed the day i gifted the bishop’s passing. a talisman of wishes, sueños where i see badlands through ocean rain. the soundtrack? feast of wire: dulcet painting, desert noir that we would lay down to, find orion. i put us in a pickup bed somewhere south of socorro dusty nostrils, crimson clouds no…pink! no,…
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Megan Eaves-Egenes 