FOR AUGUSTINE, BY LAUREN GREEN
Let the paystubs and keys, the ocean
liners in the Atlantic; Octobers, Novembers—
let them disappear. The thinning mothers
whose skin turns tulle. Let calamitous winds
push the barrel down the hill. The clock’s hands
angle backward, & the eyelid of snow
shut to oncoming deer. Throw stones.
Downwind, downwhistle, the ducks dive
to cool themselves. Shake the bats from my hair,
shuttle their songs in bowls to the riverside.
And open my hand mirror
to see my face, my yellow bedroom
emerging behind me. That calendar more than ten years
old I have kept for the photos.
Let the bewilderment of love overpower
the bewilderment of grief. Let day
discombobulate the silt.
It is my dream to sit in wisteria-ceiled rooms
with all the strangers I will someday love
& have them never leave.
Lauren Green is a fellow at the Michener Center for Writers. Her work has appeared in American Short Fiction, The Adroit Journal, Conjunctions, Glimmer Train, and elsewhere. She currently resides in Austin.