Marie López

Self-Evident
 

I was reading about a woman’s mental demise when the phone rang.
Smudging halts erosion.

You descend from the stairway,
I remarked, “you are not nude.”

I don’t hear you while your socks are on.
You could be at the last ditch behind the horizon–
You could be next to me.

I cling to the rules of domes,
A plastic sheen enclosing our world.

A straw basket or a cage for small mammals hangs outside the shuttered business.

 
 
 
**
 
 
 

Who gets to have a redemption arc
 

Not even to avenge
Or betrayal of indifference

Intimacy, a silo of smoke
Tunnel, lulls

Try translating
A gun into a color.

Found trinkets, fresh lawns sealed:
Brooklyn in May is the O in June.

Yielding after a jaunt
& the skyline with no guests for the first time.

A dive into wreaths, pollen, twins,
Misguided heat re-enters.

Inscribed or stolen?
I like this better, don’t you?

There’s two options to be had:
Bricks or accountability.

Rocked by a flux of never exhausted thought.
I have no wish–

To a circle of polished headstones.
Almost in reverse.

Is that what a gun looks like?
Against the veneer,

Witness,
So far, it’s the door’s adornment.