One Swallow Doesn’t Make a Summer
It’s a fiction.
A glass of milk.
Baudelaire’s concubine. An eager
sugar. A lunar reader.
A diary tax.
Conflation of cupboard
and springboard. Conquistador and concerto.
way of happening, a mouth.
drowsy, full of contradictions and peach trees.
A song, an urn, the ashcan
Glass spittoon, a broken
elegance of the letter f.
Green noise of teeth, their
clackclack at night when the maids
My absinthe bride-to-be
bury me in a barn with hair
husks, pollen dust.
Your eyes chasuble blue.
Sugar beet stench around your neck.
Widow cluster. Working
on the curtains, the wedding-ring quilts.
You quit us. And I was glad.
With your sad magnetic face around your aging
Her bakelite bracelets
a simple phenomenal system.
Sipping slivovitz on the terrace, she was
seized with mal
de mer though she wasn’t at sea.
The windows are waking us
from revisionist dreams. Maize light
raising us from deep sea sleep.
Your words are seaspray,
agave. You are wafer weight
in my lightning mouth. I burn you
Leaf-lake. Glass bird
Simone Muench’s first book The Air Lost
in Breathing won the Marianne Moore Prize for Poetry,
and her second collection Lampblack
& Ash received the 2004 Kathryn A. Morton Prize for
Poetry from Sarabande. Her website is www.simonemuench.com/.