Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Tag Archive for ‘melancholy hyperbole’

Awakening to Mourning

Awakening to Mourning   “There’s nothing good about goodnight when it means goodbye.” ― Jeff Thomas Dad worked at the Atlantic-Richfield refinery in Port Arthur, Texas. On the morning of August 16th, 1963, when I was thirteen, he left for work before I awoke. I never saw him again, except in photographs and memories. Neither of us knew that last “good-night” was our last. There was an explosion at the […]

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Numbers Game

We thought we could pool our loneliness— mine plus yours, addition thus becoming division of emptiness. But ten years later, our handshake deal isn’t enough; zero divided by any number still equals zero. The house suffers our pitiless geometry. We burrow into our separate cells. In acute silence grudges multiply like mice. This is a subtraction that compounds daily. We never mastered that higher branch of mathematics that could make […]

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Poppet Piracy

The cost of keeping you, my love, is high. Blue candles worn to nubs, raven-throated nights of chanting, vats of honey to swim your name in are the least of it.   To your symbol and substitute, carved poppet, blonde wool wound round waxen neck, I address my prayers and pleas. Each time you falter, your tiny twin, lumpen manikin, assures your return, as long as the levy’s paid.   […]

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Letters to Minnehaha Creek: IV.

Pass the morass of Seagram’s boxes, the red door of Powderhorn Park Association. Pass the squirrels hiding acorns in the knots of bare branches. Pass absence. How many miles have you gone? We walked 5,000 on this webbed concrete. Pass the chimes, and the plants pressed against the windows looking for the sun. The Southside Pride paper waits on the steps of the empty condo. Cut through McRae Park, pass […]

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Found Fragment 3

—the times I slept alone, dreaming my slack body over you, your winged shoulders spread, your back carried the weight of my body— the heavy weight of the horizon. My trembling hands translated your form into a winged Assyrian bull, a support of my desire, as a figure of myth, circling, or a broken recording: Beethoven’s sonata number fourteen, opus twenty-seven in an endless loop, coursing through the blood, in […]

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Found Fragment 2

Some mornings, after an hour’s run, after a slight shower, I reconsider my body, still damp with steam in the bathroom mirror, glowing with a persistent light. The skin gains a halo, a quality that almost seems religious, as a self-portrait by Schiele, reds and greens accenting the lines of the form, a figure framed in self reflection, in the blur of early hours, when time becomes an old man […]

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