The Black Dawn
Lucy Blagg
troubles gazes. Changes shape
in afternoon sun, the blue
goop coming to live
in your arms. What isn’t
a fact is a question, mixing
the dew. She champions
grace to tell you
I’m not here. Look ——
the practical application of my function
is the stairs disappearing
halfway up the hill. Halfway through the line
the ink dries. I’m trying to remember
the time I was alive, blue blankets
and the stove — the orange fence itself
another kind of life. We commend you,
pretend dissatisfaction. But why? The roofs
are all mouth-movers today, squabbling in the dust
tones of Saturn’s rings down on the street — that’s
how you know
the roundest sound was a grin
I kept in my face. It messed me up
to love it that way. So the elements
got scrambled. Look —— it’s my duty
to love and erase —— the challenge is
nothing seems to remember me
the way I do. I look at you
and your face is a cartoon, a ghostly
apparition on the horizon
of my dream. But I’m transfigured
by your touch —— please
allow me to begin.
Lucy Blagg is a poet from Los Angeles, California.
You can reach her at lucyblagg@alum.calarts.edu
David Ryan lives and works in Oakland, California.
instagram.com/makesmefeellikeaswan