Jennifer Rockwell

the swans are gone. the lake is black.
the moon is a crescent, hands warm
on my collarbones. the cut on your finger
scrapes against me, bodies shuddering.
a soft epilogue. we press ourselves together.
they are not glow worms in the dark, wet soil,
only yellow droplets of light, pooling in
from the wet suburban lamppost. do you
want to see my fishhook palms? the sun
pearls around my neck, syrup sticky with salt.
you touch me and i do not feel dirty. it is dusk
and the chinese food store sign hums neon.

i am in your plastic raincoat, scouting for a
horror shot entirely on 35. this is the part
where it begins. the girl slips into the fog,
torch swinging, and the druden scream at
her naivety. i submerge in a flood of
fluorescence and wonder if i glow. i wrote a
poem once. now you. what a gentle thing.
strange thing. sickening, cruel thing. i pray
i do not hang my head after. i pray if there
must be a vigil tonight, it is not mine.

there is an axe murderer in the forest.
there is a red helium balloon. there is a cat
that crosses from right to left. there is a
bloated corpse, bed bugs floating. there is a
puddle of blood under a shredded birthday
streamer. there is a broken piano in the middle
of the road. the taste of nickels in our mouths
as we kiss. an aching we do not name. there is
the soft humming of the geese on the lake.
there is a cracked branch, a fallen kereru,
a tormented face in the weeping willow. we
watch the couple wade into the wet woods.