The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 4 | Page 32

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