Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.


the speed of light
being what it is
your whole body
is afterimage,
the entire pale
cello of you crossing
then uncrossing your legs–
the whole wilderness of you
a sudden and exact history,
the sex in the poem of you
a pulling apart
of libraries for the right ache
between words.
the speed of light being
what it is
a touch undoes the folklore
as with any spell.
a bite into your shoulder
a loose knuckle grazing your hip
and the open pear of
your body
turns, a bell tolling
in technicolor,
be long, be long
to the infinitesimal wedge
of paleperfect nothing
between nerve ending
and fingertip.
a joint cracks
as you clench then unclose your fist
and I imagine I’ve just
snapped the stem
off a pear
as if I were beheading sadness.
I smile
and you see it
only too late
the speed of light
being what it is
I am doing something else
with my lips
Anton Frost has appeared in Verdad, Parcel, The Bacon Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Michigan.

Categories: Poetry

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