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.