Four Poems on Morbid Curiosity
The little girl seeks apology like she is forgiveness
finds loss like a blossom and recovers
shaken, the tears warmest to the ocean
on days filled with soldiers
she cries into her eyelids
an echo go back back back back back back
she is daydreaming
and there are no dreams in this science.
JUST ONE MORE FOR THE DEAD
What a time
the corpse is having!
burlesque in center—
Miss Horse Hair Mannequin, USA.
Transcendence comes from a place of revision.
The first vision encounters sleep
erupting from memory.
This happened, exactly:
The tree my window took
snuck into my bedroom
as I peeled awake,
nightmares bled fantasy into horror,
& conspired into the heroes I became.
When asked, do you know your clouds?
I considered nimbus and sycamore.
Sara was the prettiest
and by this time we scrawled words
like umbrella and sail
on the light part of the sidewalk,
watched worms emerge from top soil
and counted our blessings
to measure the lightning.
SONGS FOR THE DEAD, FOR THE THINGS WE’VE BURIED
When she lifts her skirt & twirls into the darkness, her laughter unravels the night. He stands there in his overcoat, top hat in hand, watching the girl with the magician’s wand spin away. His thoughts trail, but do not trail after her. He is confronted by a blessing cursed by an angel who tells him there can be only one her.
She leaves him like that, to doubt every debt and caress along the nape of his neck until there is nothing in his vision but a speck, a small spark left from an electric shock on the track of the heart (where the wounds are still purple) and it hurts so much worse when it rains.
Sondra Morin is a Chicago poet and essayist. She is an alumna of the Juniper Summer Writing Institute and the University of Massachusetts Amherst. Poems, essays, and radio interviews appear in American Public Media’s Marketplace with Kai Rysdall, Chicago Artists Resource, Curbside Splendor, The Rumpus, Similar:Peaks::, and more. She is obsessed with snails: sondramorin.wordpress.com