Potluck

 

We're making some fixes under our table...

Potluck 2.0 launching soon! See you in the new year!

 

Three Poems


The Red Tents

It hardly matters now, to tell you what I saw:

myself, as you
neck like a stork's, blinking up into the night 

asking to be impermeable
maybe it matters more

Pouring constellation into the coffee, I forget about transience. The red tents downtown 
serve as clue: there will be a little disaster here

blood and cherry juice,
You will bear witness to it.

Avow and forget premonition, then:

The pen spit,
aphids silently invaded all the linen, 
peppering quilted white—

I, sunburned by love

I saw a lot last Good Friday

but voided intuition at embrace.

His touch claims 
I am without grounds

but even science has a prophet
logic, a tongue:

if I try to save you

then I will be restrained.


 


 

 

Schema

 

 


 

Conventional Love Song

1.

It's 9 PM on Saturday night and you are                       at home
simultaneously wearing 
shorts and a winter scarf. 
You determine there is no one left to love,
but check your messages as though                                      someone 
out there                                                                                can hear you, your thoughts 
and they will make it their personal
business to prove you wrong.

You're not sure why                                                               there is no one 
around to stand entirely                                                                      too close 
to you, as you attempt to determine why and how 
they became the new smattering of light 
in the window come morning.

2.

Everyone                                                                       on earth
is still a baby: 
red in the face, mouth rounded 
for an inconsolable holler:

I awake 
thirsty and there is never enough of you.


All the babies in the whole world, crying.

3.

Do you know of that look, the silver
sick that can pour from your eyes onto                          the One 
who adores you? They feel
how you bewitch 
their joints, tie them into pretzel knots.

I hate the way you eye
my collarbone as though it were                                      the conceivable universe.
Hate that one day is two with you:

too late, too long, 

too slow, too                                                                                             quiet
too                                                                                                            familiar, 
banal, 
                                                                                                                 benign.

 

 

 

 

Alexus Erin is a fourth-year student at Franklin University in Lugano, Switzerland, but originally hails from Princeton, New Jersey. Her first novel was published in 2009. Her poetry previously appeared in Franklin University's Literary Magazine, as well as the American Society of Young Poets. Any free time she manages, she spends choreographing modern dance routines for troupes of children.