Writing

Emily Drouillard

Category: poetry

Breathing Spell

Not the First Question

Ever asked

But the First Answer

Ever received

Pull on

Glittering green aeroplanes

Pull off

Slick black silk

Gallantly rescue from

Perpetual subconscious retention

Rolling beneath doldrums

Arms suspended

Looking for notice

Never a cry

Never scraping dead flakes of skin

That were once planets

Pour hot hydrangea oil

Golden / bubbling / searing

Down throat

Pour liquid Amber

Moving backward through time

Crystallize and mummify

Every word uttered

Let fragile bits of honeycomb

Melt on tongue and

Shine

Leave the bottle of wine uncorked yet

It has aged

Taraxacum Invocation

the moon is so bright it is
unbearable to look at.
gaze descends to
fractured halves-
nails press into damp,
salty skin, praying:
maybe the water will
synthesize.
an ocean away from,
where the reflection of the moon
isn’t so hard to see.
orion’s belt will cinch together
tufts of isolation and
flora harvested by
shaky fingers decalibrated,
recalibrated, grasping the void
that sprouted like dandelions.
tended and tendered
into a glabrous garden.
breathe in pacific oxygen and
exhale taraxacum invocation.

Lucky Peach

we are on the jolty CTA being stretched across the red line.

the metal is cold, very cold, matching the grey sky

as foggy as my vision but you can still see me

even though you are looking down at your

cooking magazine Lucky Peach with the psychedelic green cover.

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