27
2:17 A.M.
2:17 am,
motionless,
when the house
was bandaged with mist,
swaddled in lantern's gold,
I chased down
malt liquor on the rocks,
leaning with spine
against charred black wall—
until the phonograph
spilled chords of Coltrane,
foundering on timbered floor
the way moonlight etched
itself into earth,
plentiful and illusory—
caged by cut-rate majesty
of rancid mouth that
breathed out secrets,
I inhaled scent of
candy and ash,
and haloed scarlet blooms
the likeness all out of
stride and scale.
Le Chamois d'Or, 2016
by Emily Moore