Poetry by Lynn Finger

             ​Ryan Crierie CC


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Your silhouette bourbons
 
deep tonight, Marshall Tucker loud, lights dim,
you dream absence of certainty, rabid forgiveness.
 
I step into dark porch, a mockingbird in the elm
sings mountains, all loss is singing, all loss is
 
mountains, under a starred night. You call for me-
the glitch: when did you start to need me & hate me
 
for that? When did your sticky sofa & floor drinking
sway into skeletons to hang your deflation, airplane deities.
 
Late, you pass out on the floor, I pull a blanket over,
then seek the dark yard. I thought I was to blame for not
 
being the woman who could spring your trap. I, too,
am drunk on can-this-really-be-happening. Yesterday,
 
I might have helped you tip the sectionals, to find lost
coins in the cushions, like they might be the forgotten
 
love you once had for the honeyed world. I leave,
don’t need to know if I am found or not.
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Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared in 8Poems, Perhappened, Wrongdoing Mag, Twin Pies, Book of Matches, Drunk Monkeys, Not Deer Magazine and Corporeal Lit Mag. Lynn is an editor at Harpy Hybrid Review and works with a group, “Free Time,” that mentors writers in prison. Follow Lynn on Twitter @sweetfirefly2.

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