The Rapture
Now that I’m a sweet burn blighting into cobalt I can
finally dredge up the dust in the corners. That sorcery
settling on my baseboards is what made the ancients
whimper – flecks of meteorite frayed by Jupiter, ash from volcanos
long gone sullen, wisps of woman skin. Bleach spells
are a poor substitute for constitution but I’m still
young and so is my shore. I’m still stupid and parting
this fool’s gold heart on a twin bed split by boy sweat
and seafoam cirrus. The colt in me sleeps until September, knowing
that home is the best place to billow. Here the hardwood cracks against
the grain and grows home to unwashed ants. Here the cabinets
keen at the bone china verged in vines. Here the windowsills
are sugared with lead that flays my throat like a toffee bullet.
Look at that bud vase shot through with sunshine and tell me I’m not intact.
Watch me lick these walls redolent of wine sauce and choke back the rapture.
Once I only held my hangnail sacred but now I’m on my knees when the twilight
sweeps the ceiling, lilting praise to the lip between balm and doom. Sainting what
staves me: fresh lavender held flush with my welts. Besotted squirrels
swapping vows on a power line. A stab of lightening over obsidian,
bounding for the ground.
Stephanie Seabrooke’s work explores identity, relationships, the subjectivity of perception, and the inexorable march of time. Her poems have appeared in The Shore, Kissing Dynamite, and Q/A Poetry. She holds a BA in English from Towson University and resides in the Baltimore metro area. You can follow her on Twitter @StephSeabrooke.
Watch me lick these walls redolentof wine sauce and choke back the rapture. Once I only held my hangnail sacredbut now I’m on my knees when the twilight sweeps the ceiling, lilting praise to the lipbetween balm and doom. Sainting whatstaves me: fresh lavender held flushwith my welts. Besotted squirrelsswapping vows on a power line. A stab of lightening over obsidian, bounding for the ground.