Leaving Is A Playground Is Not Love
It is the indecision of a seesaw. The wood chips. You told me never again live in
tender. The wood has grain as if I could engrave. For you a monkey bar. For me
straw and light. For you the scurry of an ant. The sky spreads out like an arm. A baby
cries. An ant dies. What lies inside the lie. Talking about the weather. I dreamed I
held your body to the sun to see how much I could take. I only sleep in dresses.
Beads of sweat on the baby’s nose. I take my temperature and you are. I dreamed I
buried a violin underneath a playground. It is the indecision of a revision. Cooped
up. How will this keep us better. Even if I promise to dress cleanly and press my
clothes and be sharp. Keep us better for the sky is remarkably sane. I imagine the
ants at states lines. I imagine the sky the way it looked before this city stretched. You
this strange egg. I blame broken stones, curious ovals anyone could find in half rock.
Again the tender music as if.
Emily Koehn’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Crazyhorse, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, CutBank, and other journals. Her work has been nominated for the Best New Poets series and two Pushcart Prizes. She received her MFA from Purdue University and currently lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
This work appears here courtesy of Thrush Poetry Journal.