Tag: Chelsea Wagenaar

by Chelsea Wagenaar

Their coats creekbrightso that

I can nearly seemyself

in the afterstorm ecstasyof the sun

the worldunlockedflung

opendrippingand verdant

They do not blinkor move

their barnscattered in planks

blasted apartabout the ravaged

yardWhat terror

to be sparedor resurrected

For weeks after you emerged

from meyou’d wake from sleep

unhousedthe large indigo

of your eyesstunned

What to saywhen a worldends

HelloI’d tell you

hellogentlynot to startle

everything is stillbroken

you the dreamerI the dream

my facelike one underwater

parceledby lightjust after

the funnel has let goof earth

from Poetry Northwest 12.2 Winter & Spring 2018More by Chelsea Wagenaar from the library

Copyright © Chelsea Wagenaar
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

by Chelsea Wagenaar

In a field, a house.

Asleep in the house, a girl.

From the barn behind the house, happy whinnying,

the carnival smell of shit and hay.

Blue lupine rims the field, bends

in a crescendo of wind.

And the jasmine—

threaded through the arbor,

drunk with the scent of itself—

the jasmine pulls the storm in,

twists the dark cone from cloud

and tugs it earthward.

Spins it toward the barn.

The cone parts the roof to peer

at the horses, black as pupils,

so silent: a mime of fright.

The cone peels back the walls,

shreds the beams and joists,

flings the partition that once formed

their stalls.

Now they are together,

can step into the field

and mouth the supple grasses.

They can cross the lupine

into the brilliant beyond, alone as gods.

When will the sleeping girl know their sorrow?

Who will bring them sugar at the end of the world?

from Poetry Northwest 12.2 Winter & Spring 2018More by Chelsea Wagenaar from the library

Copyright © Chelsea Wagenaar
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.