Alexander Rabb CC
Late Summer, 4:23 am
The night yawns open-mouthed
and quiet. Outside
the window, the gasp of dawn, the opposite
of a cliff;
a swallowing darkness, a precipitous fall into
Light. Below the horizon
the sun hangs like a threat.
I can smell it. There is a lunar calendar in the soft
meat of my belly. I count each tiny moon
my fingernails left behind. Years pass
or something like a year. Something like a wave
swells in my throat
and subsides. Low tide and I
am a tangle of salt and bone. Seagrass
threatening to turn putrid in the heat
if this stinging sea of moonlight
does not break for me.
I shred the sheet and hang
a thousand white flags in the window.
They wrap themselves around me
like bandages, turn bloodred like the dawn
that is just as feral
as I am. Tooth
nail and wrist. Outside
the smell of cigarettes through the open window.
A car drives past without hurry.
A dog yelps softly
and goes back to sleep.
Eve, Drunk Again
If I break everything,
then nothing is really broken anymore,
is it? Everything is just a crosssection
of itself a biopsy
of the butterfly who tore itself to pieces
(as butterflies are wont to do
at the beginning
and the end of things). Look God,
I made a bouquet of it. Look,
I reinvented flowers so
I can grow my own garden. I can grow apples.
I can grow pomegranates and you
will not be welcome there anymore
than I am.
Rachel Grace Mussenden is a poet living and working in Philadelphia, PA. No longer spending her waking hours arguing with strangers in bars, she is a firm believer in long showers and grapefruit seltzer. Other work can be found in The American Journal of Poetry, and is upcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.