Friday, April 8, 2016

LeeAnn Allan collaboration


This was written by myself and another poet that will rename nameless at this time. We wrote it in ten minutes and was selected to be published by Four Chambers magazine. 

Tuesday at 7:00
A beam of streetlight creases through the cracked curtains of an hourly hotel
Lighting half of her face as she slides off her rings

Seeing headlights in the parking lot
The clerk puts the key on the desk without looking up

She hears the metal clicks as the lock begins to turn
And loosens the straps of her sundress.

Before words are spoken
A light particle travels between the eyes of two lovers.

She runs her hand over the do not disturb sign
It’s torn and tattered and used—like her

He checks his watch as she clutches the cross on her neck

The stained sheets don’t bother them.
Their silenced cellphones don’t either.

She watches the way his body moves with hers
He watches their reflection on the black television screen

She hears a baby crying next door and imagines a life she’ll never have.

He hears a football game in the other room and hopes his team is winning.

Almanac

A response to Gary Snyder’s August on Sourdough, A Visit from Dick Brewer

Almanac
You left to find the red red trees
                                    in that golden state
After you promised we’d see the castles
            on the green Ire cliffs
                        I watched you cry and slide into
the crashing waves
                                    —then you smiled as you began to drown—
            But I was the one who died

When I saw you dancing on my footsteps