A Girl Like You
At the Altar of My Fifth Year
Boy,
Carat, Cut, Color, Clarity
Midnight in Paris
New Year's Trip
Self-Portrait as My Father’s Son
The Chemistry of Distance
The Moon Children
The Safest Sex Is Absence
Too Many Questions About Strawberries
Vapors
Weeping Cherry
Vapors
Megan Grumbling
I fill my glass with fog, sometimes, the grace
of it diffuse: You, gaseous somewhere. Breath
is loss; confess: A palm before my face
grows damp with gone. It’s maybe in the wet
of some man’s retina, the water runs
once it has left, or in the perfect beads,
late mornings, warm brown bread with cinnamon
leaves on a cobalt glaze. The pristine weep
of this iced gin I’ll drain, I praise—a flow
through pirates, dodos, dinosaurs, all pores
perspiring steam soon you, soon us. And so
it goes, just borrowed. So the haunting, pour
or frost, is fluid as the thirst you’d slake,
a need now clear, now prism, now opaque.
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of it diffuse: You, gaseous somewhere. Breath
is loss; confess: A palm before my face
grows damp with gone. It’s maybe in the wet
of some man’s retina, the water runs
once it has left, or in the perfect beads,
late mornings, warm brown bread with cinnamon
leaves on a cobalt glaze. The pristine weep
of this iced gin I’ll drain, I praise—a flow
through pirates, dodos, dinosaurs, all pores
perspiring steam soon you, soon us. And so
it goes, just borrowed. So the haunting, pour
or frost, is fluid as the thirst you’d slake,
a need now clear, now prism, now opaque.