At the end of the night a poisonous star
Rises above Petersburg like a cancer-spot.
Cats, fevered, untranslatable,
Go long ways for secrets and fish heads.
Amorists hide in the alcoves
Of the swollen city, guarding their possessions;
I feel the feral marble machine of my heart
Leak mercury, my veins warm
When I hear two lovers twittering
In the chalice of their arms . . . There is something
Deliciously final about you, she says,
I cannot say what it is.
I cannot say who you are, he says,
Copyright © 2018 Monica Ferrell
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.