Get our latest essays, archival selections, reading lists, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
Triangular glasses, brumal volts, gin,
frescade of pearls, plucked, sunned olives,
grave albino onions, juniper nip & the cusp of snow,
we sip slow, as at a glacier’s lip. Holy day.
I’m thinking fingerbone salad, the marginalia
of Emily Brontë, intricate skeleton keys,
not blade but the pierced heart, the bow
to which torque must be applied.
That blue note of exile in your eyes.
Meeting mine you say the way you inhale
semen oysters rosewater ordure of armpit, footsole,
I smell time. I meaning you. You smell time.
Alone along the Interstate, later, runnels rapt into ice,
sun sinks, aguish, an amber smut, ruttish
behind black roofs, crotched ridge.
Why miss any chance to be changed?
I’m ready, you said, back in our niveous cups,
gelid narcotic by which I mentally undressed you.
You called my drink chaste. The intoxication
love brings when we mean to gladden,
mouths boreal and high. Terrified, beautiful.
Unashamed. They are the same.
Lisa Russ Spaar has published over ten books of poetry and criticism, most recently Monticello in Mind: 50 Contemporary Poems on Jefferson and Orexia: Poems. She is a professor in the Creative Writing Program of the Department of English at the University of Virginia.
Vital reading on politics, literature, and more in your inbox. Sign up for our Weekly Newsletter, Monthly Roundup, and event notifications.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.
Support us with a donation this giving season.
Robin D. G. Kelley on the midterm elections.