Ekphrasis, I Guess

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BRAD TRUMPFHELLER

 
 

after Ewan Hill

Turning like any good daughter I spit

on the wedding picture I took from her

 

closet so they both seem to bend. Time is

so time. Let’s say I put the sky to sleep

 

even if the stars are still in their sheds.

Okay. & someday, yeah. I do wanna

 

verb things like they looked good up there all

altar on their own, like I’ve swallowed too

 

many peach pits to not bolt any windows

this winter. Maybe I’m scared of heritage.

 

Or not. But I got these looks & locks

like I’m debutante. Where’s my dance.

 

My model & make. It’s true: I would make

a nightmare bridegroom. All disco lipgloss

 

& soft how I’m undoing. Call that our kind

of work. I got taught to tongue fruit

 

I found bleeding in the sheets. Like any good

headstone they bow so I’m catgut. They split

 

& I’m high-strung. They left, she’s right, Dad’s

half seconds from stitching me into his collar

 

so I bite down past the peach fuzz, leave a mess

behind my neckline, plunge my ring fingers

 

in the stove pot like bloodthinner. Mom won’t

say where she left what was left of her dress

 

so I put a third moon in the poem

to have enough dead light to dig by.