Matthew Mahaney
You are the Thoroughmeat


The apple-stained plow boy.

We float light shards on ponds, sip


strawfulls of syrup by hailstorm.

Now we are combing through


haystacks and leaf piles just for the smell.

This is not elegy, is nothing


so orderly. Prayers

out the window like heat.

You are the Almost Ache


The black-scarved turbulence of winter rain.

On my knees. The mongrels


make their muzzlesounds

as the pills


in my cupboard turn

to little piles of powder.