The Unclaimed
In every city there’s a room
lined with boxes ofthe unclaimed, each the size of
half a loaf of goodbread. My friend collects these
boxes, which he thenbrings home & opens & empties
the ash into a bucket tomix with a medium to make another
painting. One
box is smaller, only as big as a few sticksof butter, five days old
typed out on the label. My frienddoes not even open this box, he
cannot, it is heavier than youmight imagine. Stardust, he
simply places it in the center ofa large white canvas.
Unghosted
I’ve tried to dream this lakeinto existence
for years & here it is,ta-da, illuminated
briefly beneath ourflare. You
show me the birds that liveunderground—oilbirds—
if you don’t know howto walk, you whisper,
you could breakthem…. You put
a hand on my chest & Ihear the lake, you
put a hand on my scar…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2019