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Meredith Cottle

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post mortem


won’t be long now

they say

spooning you another

taste of mercy


there is an orchid

in the corner

kneeling in its

old dry dirt


time makes itself

scarce, hiding

upstairs like a child

at a grown-up party


what is death

but the strangest

grown-up

party?


a record spins

unheard

but some of you breathe

and it is booming


when the hour

comes, they have you

leave the room,

shut the door


you don’t need to see this

they say, shoveling

the mercy

down your throat


what is death

but a thing

you can’t

stop seeing?


they blow out

the candles

they leave you

alone


 

Lost


And the bat tonguing its way in the dark

forgets what the night should taste like


And the limousine drivers and widows

make a job out of being lost


And you lose me in the laundry

And you lose me like a game


And you sometimes forget you can stand

on the side of the road


And breathe the dust of the running motors

laying itself on the dirt field there


And hold the low-flying planes in your

close pink palm


And another cop running circles around the median

forgets what he is looking for


And you lose me in plain sight

And you fill my shoes with water, paint me mud


And there is something far away

in being present with no purpose


And there is something

strangely close about the sky


 

saturday, as defined


tonight I heard a perfect cover

of have you ever seen the rain

underground

all alone on a yellow pole


a new hole in my head

the same love in my diaphragm

rasping

like the short, bald singer


it was a perfect day

everyone smiled

nobody was worried

once

we marveled at black squirrels


miles, like fields to a cow

stretched with no certainty

but danced, the heat a new

face

calling and reeking and flat


what a great, impossible novelty

not the happy people,

people, that there were people at all

witnesses

to this immovable summer


coming out of the subway

into the night that was once so lonely

I remember that we are all

fragile

as candy-covered fruit


 

Meredith Cottle is a poet from New York with a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from Binghamton University and an MFA in Poetry from Cornell University. Her work has been published in Ragazine, Shrew Lit Mag, Sheepshead Review, Streetlight Press, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Rising Phoenix Review.

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