Now that I’m a sweet burn
blighting into cobalt I can
finally dredge up the dust
in the corners. That sorcery
settling on my baseboards
is what made the ancients
whimper – flecks of meteorite
frayed by Jupiter, ash from volcanos
long gone sullen, wisps of
woman skin. Bleach spells
are a poor substitute for
constitution but I’m still
young and so is my shore.
I’m still stupid and parting
this fool’s gold heart on a
twin bed split by boy sweat
and seafoam cirrus. The colt in me
sleeps until September, knowing
that home is the best place to billow.
Here the hardwood cracks against
the grain and grows home to
unwashed ants. Here the cabinets
keen at the bone china verged
in vines. Here the windowsills
are sugared with lead that flays
my throat like a toffee bullet.
Look at that bud vase shot through
with sunshine and tell me I’m not intact.
Watch me lick these walls redolent
of wine sauce and choke back the rapture.
Once I only held my hangnail sacred
but now I’m on my knees when the twilight
sweeps the ceiling, lilting praise to the lip
between balm and doom. Sainting what
staves me: fresh lavender held flush
with my welts. Besotted squirrels
swapping vows on a power line.
A stab of lightening over obsidian,
bounding for the ground.
Stephanie Seabrooke’s work explores identity, relationships, the subjectivity of perception, and the inexorable march of time. Her poems have appeared in The Shore, Kissing Dynamite, and Q/A Poetry. She holds a BA in English from Towson University and resides in the Baltimore metro area. You can follow her on Twitter @StephSeabrooke.