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Tag: Owen McLeod

All Saints' Eve

Head a bee-buzzing stump, song

a cosmic background pulse, I lived

on pills & milk with thee in me.

From a La-Z-Boy abandoned

on the basketball court, I watched

you light up the KFC, part traffic

for the rush-hour ambulance, raise

weeds from asphalt cracks, cause rain

to come down like Adidas on me,

mofo of infinite faith. Trees

were your fingers, not prints or clues.

Never were you uppercase with me.

I’ve missed you since. Now balding

with back fat and ring of keys, I wolf

Mint Milanos over the kitchen sink,

spy on neighbors across the street,

daughter a bunch of grapes, purple

balloons stapled to her leotard.

She steps into the night, clutching

an empty pillowcase. Iron Man is first

to pop a balloon. Next is Gandalf,

though he said he didn’t mean to.

A girl without friends is just a stem

of shriveled skins by the end.

You were out there somewhere,

but you didn’t care. I searched

heaven for your face, found

only the moon. By dawn, it was clear

you’d been out all night—papering

yards, smashing pumpkins, drunk

and dressed up as God knows what.

from Poetry Northwest 12.2 Winter & Spring 2018More by Owen McLeod from the library

Copyright © Owen McLeod
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.