Incoagulable | Lucy Walker
Heat sweeps under the door jamb. Outside a car alarm.
Every half hour. The air brings the leaves to the window,
a spider about to drop into the alley. I could have loved it,
a life so small and dark like a pearl. Oyster smooth.
I hear young women laughing next door and it’s fuzzed
like an ultrasound. Remember the ferry rides? Remember
the geese in the empty cornfield? I can’t remember your voice
and you haven’t left yet. Last night, I undercooked the cake.
The center was bright yellow and wobbling. I couldn’t find
the right flowers, store after store, each face was too small
and smelled of nothing.
About the Author:
Lucy Walker is a Vermont poet. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and has work published in Bodega Magazine, PANK, and Hole in the Head Review.