Poetry: Lemon

Lampreys of Sunlight

Alex Lemon

 
The aftermath of a brilliant
Downpour—a shredded oak,

The street tumbling with shingles—
Is nothing compared to the almost

Good feeling a terrific beating
Can give you: how the nearness

Of death strips man unadorned.
But most often, our gift is

The burden of ignorance
& dreams: Sourdough & pickles

At the graveyard picnic &
Each night the woman who

Stands in your kitchen
In nothing but blinding white

Panties combs her lustrous hair
With a four-inch nail. This morning,

I nibbled a two-day old pancake
& realized that, along

The way, everything inside us
Gets broken. The cardinals

Are playing peek-a-boo. Ground-
Ward, the magnolia bends.
 

Alex Lemon is the author of “Happy: A Memoir,” and the poetry collections “Mosquito,” “Hallelujah Blackout,” and “Fancy Beasts.” Books of poetry and non-fiction are forthcoming from Milkweed Editions. His writing has appeared in Esquire, Best American Poetry 2008, Satellite Convulsions, and Tin House, among others. He lives in Ft. Worth, Texas, and teaches at TCU.