Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Kristin Prevallet

  

Upside Down

Yellow petals collapse to purple seeds.

A black rock in the middle of the table.

Two chairs pulled up on either side.

One glass half filled with water.

One cup half filled with tea.

One bowl with traces of yogurt around the sides.

A window reflecting black.

White curtains bunched in the center.

An old fur collar clasped around the rim of a lampshade.

A stick of incense propped against a deer’s vertebrae.

An empty jewelry box I can’t decide whether to keep, or throw away.

A wire screen.

The side of another house.

A clothesline that connects two trees.

There are red hand towels and white underwear alternating on the line.

The shadow of the line is at a 80 degree angle against the house.

One cup with the cold remains of coffee.

The newspaper wide open, “The Story of the Icon” waits to be read.

The dirt piling up beneath the spider web in the corner.

The bed loosely made, still untucked.

Between two people, a variable distance.


Distance

Memory of the room: foggy.

Yellow and possibly brown fungi growing behind the chair.

To describe any further would mean that I am living the inverse of this reality.

As inverse as it gets, without breaking into poetry.

I remember the sun was hours from rising.

The meal was soggy from lack of cabin pressure.

The oxygen masks had not yet been deployed.

I remember there were lights, or the hint of an illumination that eased into the room like silver.

The silver made sense as a sign of peace.

Between us, the sun had set in wrath.

Yellow was a reminder of daylight: the unattainable brought on by an awakening.

The logic of our weathered past was lightening.

Steel bolts that may have fixed the chair, but made it attract the wrong kind of electricity.

I remember being spiked on many occasions.

I blamed circumstance, and environmental conditions.

But the wrong memory had taken over the landscape:

This story was supposed to be about love.

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