WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO FEAR
and its duck soup hug
lathering the edge of each minute?
I curate colors for our bedroom
to foil insignificance.
I gather pink eggs
from the neighbor's coop,
certain that if I hold on long enough
my warmth will brood
big, blank eyes & forked feet
from each suspended yolk.
I push seeds into the dirt,
blotting out the matte shadow of rootlessness
and, like, a hundred years pass.
You lay beside me,
reporting that you finally understand
the human nature of habitability:
one house packed with bright garbage,
another picked clean by dope ghosts,
and us—in our place,
with our beamish plastics & pillows.
Like the moon, you sigh into your maria.
I never blame you
or the quagmire of light you take credit for
time bore a hole into each of my wrists,
just for attention.
You slipped your finger under the delicate glass
of those minutes.
You held it there:
forevering me, sprung forward.
Maggie Glover is originally from Pittsburgh, PA. Recently, her poetry has appeared in Carrier Pigeon, jubilat, Ninth Letter, and other literary journals. Her debut collection of poems, How I Went Red, was published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in Feb. of 2014. A selection of her work is included in 12 Women: An Anthology of Poems, released by Carnegie Mellon University Press in Dec. of 2014. Upcoming projects include a collaborative poetry manuscript with poet Isaac Pressnell, an excerpt of which will appear in BEST AMERICAN EXPERIMENTAL WRITING 2015. She lives on a beach in Los Angeles, CA.