DREAM OF A COMMON LANGUAGE
I dreamed last night I was drowning
in your wreck, salt breaking me
against coral and steel, while tide
ripped me further from shore
with each stroke and flapping kick.
I saw no God in those waves,
only swirling foam, rust
mingled with sand, and you—
Medusa, your hair spreading
like bronze seaweed,
your heart-words, clitoral orchids
that wet so many eyes. How?
You smiled, famine of teeth,
let float my hand, it should feel
like chasing breath or falling
never landing, bleeding
and still swimming.
WALKING PAST DUSK
A woman walking alone
spreads her shoulders broad and struts
bitch-glaring like she owns streets
she’s never seen. Swinging a bottle
with the heft of a flail, she tells roommates
to expect her at 11:38, selects at random
her route, sometimes: “hide
in hair salon,” “hail a cab,” “light up
every button in the lift.”
Tonight, she carries only
her black belt heart,
and rounds the same block twice,
listening for footfalls.
Earbuds silent, she hears only the hiss
of hydroplaning, the city’s breathing.
The sky is a denim haze,
empty of stars, and still
as bath water or tea steeping.
Alexandra Malouf has work featured or forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Pleiades, and Ireland Poetry Review, among others. I’ve also been the fortunate beneficiary of the Ethel Lowry Handley Prize from the Academy of American Poets.
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