A Prayer for the Wolf Bands of Festival Season
Smoothing the interstates, rattling with fanatic
speed, and when you curl up to sleep, it's
my heart behind your heart: hummingbird,
rabbit, then the drum of the surf
on the coasts. I think of you twitching
for time alone, unwild as a circus.
Blindfolded architects sweating through the draft
of a future that will rise behind them
later. Turn south for the surprise, turn north
for me. Turn west in the tradition
of wanting. Don't lose all the blue in your eyes,
don't use all the water. Bring me home
unthinking your animal bones, your mouth
dropping the carcasses of little cities.
Remembering Quick Draw at the Plaza Flamingo
Several façades ago on the sign
of the Plaza Flamingo, we wore matching vests
and faced each other with replica pistols.
A barricade of fruits at your back, the sky
overthinking its blues, scarred with staples.
No one who saw us would have imagined
a threat. No one else who saw us
could follow the full line of your jaw.
All the doorways behind us
were black. We slept on our feet.
Early in the morning, if no one
was looking, I'd pretend I smoked too
and we'd climb down from the dusty square
to share cigarettes. I could hear
the blood in my ears, the salt
eating through the sidewalk.
Three bars later, I can't believe
I ever thought you'd miss me.
MEGHAN HARRISON is from math-rock country and lives in Toronto. Her poetry has appeared in venues including The Puritan, Matrix, and The Antigonish Review. She tweets from @meghanharrison, sometimes about sports.
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Issue 7 Playlist