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Lori Lamothe Coyotes Their howls rip sleep in two. Night's gone into
labor, breathes jagged air. Later: sadness rises and falls in curtains. The other day a neighbor caught a pair of coyotes drinking moonlight out of her swimming pool. They were unmoved by her symphony of clanging pots. Now she keeps her kids inside, subscribes to the sunshine channel. I once loved a man who loved the sound of coyotes. We rode nightly on that rollercoaster of crescendo
and rest. There was a kind of magic in it but I knew if I followed the sound to its source I'd emerge into a clearing of complete emptiness, fall forever in zero's black hole. My ex-love says the coyotes aren’t singing emptiness
at all— that my origami silhouettes of loneliness are only the echoes of lullaby. Fold words into cranes. Knit sound into sequence and hold its shadow up against tomorrow’s blank slate sky. Watch how the dark flutter of notes makes meaning seem bigger than it really is. Watch how time washes silence clean.
Bonfire The architecture of expectation won't catch only smokes: rain-drunk dragon guarding someone else's
version of contentment. Then all at once intensity opens its palm, and red spreads from the roots to the tips of color until the whole sky's breathing heat and the fire tree, if I can call it that, shakes out its hair. Sparks ride air take root in doubt; they may never matter—may never burn down the wick of darkness and explode
the snow's fierce calligraphy. Hours later, when we ride by, embers still glow like
anger simmering on opposite sides of a bed or
the one idea I can't keep lit, can't let go. Dead Wife Look Alike
Everyone keeps calling
your name. In parking lots, women
tell me I’ve got the recipe
for eternity, surround
me with shopping carts. As if that’s not bad
enough toddlers and shaggy dogs
keep
weaving rings around escape. Hey, I can’t even cook
pasta but the man you
married tells me I sometimes
carry a cane and your own mother
swears this summery dress and
bright bandanna wrapped
around my head will
lead her straight to you. There are only
seventeen people in the world who
speak regret fluently. There are forty-two
tricks for remembering, but
only eleven for forgetting. Please respond. I have so much more to
tell you about invisible. Lori
Lamothe has recent work in 42opus, Barn Own Review, failbetter.com,
Linebreak and other magazines. Her
chapbook, Camera Obscura, is available from Finishing
Line Press. |
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