morass

the meat was tough

the table was dirty

the server was hard

the cook was angry

the roadway was packed

the people were rushed

the day was too long

the night was too short

and somewhere a lamb bleats

a music as soft as silk for its mother

sensing the inevitable wave

lucy meskill

wasp

he fell
           where he was landing

as one leg flew off
clutched

in the bright yellow beak of a starling



lucy meskill

photo credit: Des Cannon

nipple

the moon is weaning fireflies

gently in the dark of night—

the day pulses in and out

breath like a cooling iron

graveolent of everything

it wilted and steamed flat today

beneath the withering stare

of august's glaring sun—

glimmering like diamonds

they drop eggs and rise...

lucy meskill

babydoll

sounding new like you

is not my style

situated in opposite attitudes

upon the same shelf

my paint is worn

turn me over and back again

like water spiraling noisily

along a battered downspout

or a sheep with a cold

I release a muffled waaa

far beyond the comforting reach

of mother's fleshy arms

lucy meskill

event horizon

I grieve over

our affinity

I grieve over

our conjoinedness

I grieve over

the knowledge of you

like radioactive material

slowly melting down

to the very center

of the world

lucy meskill

firebox anatomy

not squelched by faith

this darkling flame

and glistening floss 

where amber marries red

as smudge and char

their ort children rise

upward through the flue

to mask the moon

the scent of space

that like and likening

of gray body ascension

which bears all soot to wind

as piceous carbon undulates

like dense black lace buoyant

above the chinks in windows

where vital breath transpires

lucy meskill

network...

the nations
of my nerves
rejoice
all of their states
and capitols
resound
in this slipstream
in this joyous
and terrible
bundle of hours
that build
to formulate
the living day...


lucy meskill