I Wanted to Write About by Meaghan Eliot

the frangipani flower

(whether in Australia or Mexico).

But I cannot force myself

to ruin a flower with words. The collapse

of a flower – our footsteps

clearing the ground of weeds,

the stench of snake like a hunting horn: lugubrious.


Then the clouds followed me,

and the bottle swallowed me,

and the Iceman warned me,

and the disease took me,

the thaw, control,

a torch.


Poets are hard to know. They presume

humans invented poetry

and not the other way around.

All poems are love poems with bad ink.


You are not Neruda

(your bellybutton is too large and I don’t like it

when you shave)

but you ask the same questions.

If I were a ruby, would I be envious of a pomegranate?

A pomegranate is more sensual; a ruby lasts

and is stronger. I’d rather be

a pomegranate, able to multiply

and rot.


I wanted to memorialize something

not worth memorializing:

A gutted black bear in a truck bed

driving toward Calais, Maine. The spine

of books, stuttering colours on the shelf,

sandstorms coming down off the Gobi desert,

a dog named Jindy.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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