Hush / Apples Falling In The Orchard August McKernan

August McKernan

Imagine: an image of your lover in relation to nothing. an escherian stairwell embossed in golden foil, a fervor to light up the brain.

Pinprick of heat then golden light. If I were to speak the word blue, a mass extinction, exiting.

In the drawer of her desk, my harvest rots. I have not yet learned how to give.

In the stairwell, time passing.

Head between the knees, neck slack, somewhere a root resembles a hand. Body insulated, body in the room, sometimes it is enough.

Young, strong tissues.

My father drops a lightbulb, phosphenes scatter. He digs a hole in the earth, calls it my gift.

A moniker loosely held, damp soil in the hand.

The alternative to relation: an apple seed. To let things take root, quiescent but for the possibility of brief light.

August McKernan

the metronome’s groan / splitting silver polymers / a nerve / a tight swerve / see how things collide / the smell of spring on / the air / when I needed everyone to love me / a sheaf of glass / light licks through / intersecting the train’s midday whistle