The Antigonish Review: 3 Poems

Published in TAR’s Spring 2024 issue #216 (late release).

Drinking the Sun

The sun came in like

a vixen this morning 

wearing a coat of early 

flame, the brush dipped

in white smoke. 

She is an animal 

ready to rut. I do not blame the sun 

for our burned skin, peeling us 

down to fuming wicks, 

or for her consummate hunger,

sparks momentarily satiated 

by big trees and human 

detritus. I know the feeling. 

In heat 

is all she knows.

That infinite rending, a shine 

that produces 

viridian children 

squeaking wet and dewey before 

she wakes and warms them dry.

I too feed at the breast 

of the sun, 

every mouth fills with her 

every mouth draws water 

along with the burn. 

I open my curtain to her, 

I say

come here, radiant 

you are

dying just like me.

Variations on Carbon 

The calpers pinch crab-like, day after day. Her neck grows stiff with the bend 
of the hours. Millimeters of diamonds and gold, such small ways to spend 
a life and earn a living. But the dazzle, the primordial magnetism pulls her 
toward these elements that have built the foundations of bloated empire. 
She is hypnotized by the sharpness of the gem’s cut, the asscher’s mirrors 
cartwheel her into a funhouse fantasy. She imagines crawling inside 
among the clear carbon walls and seeing her reflection sparkle 
back at her in multitude. Maybe she would be more perfect 
among the hallowed walls of diamond facets, the impossible 
hardness sloughing away her soft spots. Maybe the legion 
versions of her self would crystallize into one deathless
being. Odd, how both graphite and diamonds are made 
only of carbon. One, the smudging erasable instrument; 
the other a rigid, cutting marvel. Sometimes 
the jeweler could feel her own pendulum 
swing from a lubricating tool: useful and 
common, to an abrasive blade: sharp and 
vitreous. We all house the possible 
allotropes of our conditioning. 
Pressure does things.

Disentanglement From Hibernal Dark

Where does my writhing 
den of snakes reside this winter?

In my haste to get away/below/together,
I seem to have forgotten which underboulder 

I scooped, snooping small mammals to morsel.
Midnight memory lodges wiggling instances of regret. 

Survival is a last scrap of warmth cached in my guts. 
Cold breeds need, so I gathered myself.

Small magnets–my component parts–convened beneath 
snow, traveling pheromone trails, tracing psychiatric.  

My scaly terror came roiling from the north,
ice snake, old blood, a piercing pick to skull.

Little imposter slid in from the south,
coiling skill after skill and coming up wanting.

From the west the grief wept as it whipped 
me into a long, strong thing. 

Back east the curling scent of selflessness
wriggled in a round, insistent ball of duty.

I’m all girded together, chillblaine tightened 
and knotted, itching ouroboros of trouble. 

If I cannot recollect the hole, how will my snakes know 
of egress? Of warmth? How will they loosen?

I’m ready to slide apart, flick free and taste the air,
to bask in the hard-sought light of forgiveness. 

I will search the heaviness, then milk the venom from my 
throat. Year after year I will charm myself from shadow.