I am in need of the devil, but the crossroads are paved
I
only ever saw you
from
the corner of my
heart
that was degrading.
When
you spoke, your
spittle
flew in my mouth
and
traveled down
to
encourage its abasement.
Perhaps
age has relayed
your
ennui to me.
Perhaps
I see the wilting
of
the planet’s heart and that
kinship
eases my loneliness.
That
was the crack in
my
skin that you exploited.
I
will hide inside you,
if
necessary,
to
save my love,
or
the world.
Sometimes
I miss you,
my
reliable ache
in
the dark.
most delicate objects
Hope
can be made
from
almost anything:
peacock
feathers pasted
to
shark’s teeth;
shed
cat fur, webbed
around
a rusted bed frame;
eggshells,
carefully reconstructed,
encircling
boomerangs.
If it
must be sharp,
Let
it be gilded.
Let
it be a hidden weapon
nestling
to the skin,
purring,
ready to pounce.
Sonder
Poems should hurt like love —Kenyatta Rogers
Fashion
an instrument to
measure
how far into their heart
you
have wormed yourself;
one
that tests for
birdsong
that doesn’t
yet
exist, made of
untreated
willow bark.
Awl-out
piercings, mapped
from
your right hand
and
their left, and insert it
between
the fourth and fifth rib.
If
this wormhole,
slender
and twisting like
a
rotary telephone cord
is
long enough, ask them
to
breathe in, and out,
direct
from their lungs.
Does
it pick up a tune?
Does
it hurt like a poem
or
does it sing like love?
Shelagh Rowan-Legg is a writer and filmmaker in Montréal. Her poetry and short stories have been published in numerous journals such as The Windsor Review, The Ampersand Review, and New Poetry. Her short films have screened at festivals around the world, and she is a Contributing Editor at ScreenAnarchy. Find her at shelaghrowanlegg.com and on Bluesky, @bonnequin.bsky.social.