Andrew Morgan
Lent

 

The plastic doorway sips at the cold

and the trouble with patience

is color, the way the moon

slips in and out of its texture.

Everything is quiet in the moat,

each number you sneak from my mouth

rolls its r’s like a child discovering

moisture on the back of a song.

A ring sits on a window’s ledge.

A dog is near. A noose is slipped.

A log in the distance finds melody,

finds comfort distended by the stomach.

Just as I never recovered my father

from his ashes I never plan

on coiling my peers into lengths.

This cot has a rhythm the night

mimics with a slow rolling

and when the radio is tipped

the static whispers the prayers of ghosts.

I wish I had something original to report,

something my lengthened peers

could coil in the corner

of a dim-lit yet warming room.

The dog rattles its tags,

shits a bullet on the hardwood floor.