Trees
Here it is not like that: it’s a company of trees, and all are undoubtedly dead.
Here it is not like that: it’s a company of trees, and all are undoubtedly dead.
Today I and the unhooded bird
that sits on my head
are looking in different directions,
Laura Cesarco Eglin’s poem, “Makeover,” appears in Michigan Quarterly Review’s Summer 2019 issue. Blue lipstick in remembrance of days of intense cold of nails turning blue and lips to match when she’s tired she applies eyeshadow where the bags under her eyes should be, she feels free to mark her spirits rising the red lipstick …
“Are they gone?” Danny gasps. He is still a heap on the platform, motionless except for the heaving of his chest.
“Nope,” I say. “We’re gonna have to wait.”
Praise to the father holding his sleeping daughter on the 52nd
Street trolley
To the daughter sleeping through the pothole thrum
Praise to the diabetic with shorn feet and sugarcane blood
To the shooting nerve through the left hip and lower spine
To those flying gods on their routes
Praise to the red-headed Rasta and his ganja-laced T-shirt
To the Vietnam vet at Cass Corridor holding his sign
To the sign which reads: “I’m not homeless, I’m just Black”
Praise to the barbers trying to calm the fatherless boys in their chairs
To the mothers trying not to overhear this soothing
To soothing