Issue 2:1 | Poetry | Wesley Biddy
AND THE HOST
September haze. Breathe,
this is the approach of the approach of splendor.
Jukebox spurting rusty flakes of blood and years
into the grease-glutted air,
music spiders through the veins
on silken legs of memories—
like opium, like foxfire—
that drug and bewitch the soul.
We glare at the moon,
his sunken eye-pits,
gaping bowl of a mouth,
why does he just sit there and wail like that?
It is a terrifying thing to see a rock
crawl into the sky and become a mirror.
Smoke weaving its nets overhead:
the cigarettes burn like a kiss,
scarred marascino cherry
crucified to its meal of weeds
in those holy inches just beyond the lips.
Our eyes lock and the warmth defies metaphor;
this return from long exile,
who would blaspheme with poetry
what should be canonized with silence?
eyelids’ flutter becomes pages:
the unutterable alphabet of dreams.