Here

By Matthew BOTTIGLIERI

Here in this chamber of many doors, we are lost in the

threaded mist of our hands. Old buttons. Time measured in

fevers of rain. Hours swirling their full stomach to contend

with. Places upon which to hang one’s hat. A body for whom

we wait to wash the sins from our hands. Sweet sun setting

in reverse, pendulous and thick with shadows. Ode to the

necklace of dreams that strangles the throat. Plant roses in

the cuts that furrow the fields. Make love in haste or not at all.

Old demons tend to the gristle and the forge. Beating

the sky flatter than a cymbal. Pulp of the coastal hiss, murmur

of surf. Salt over the right shoulder, as the blade slides in and out

of the sheath. Rituals in permutations or three.

This poem originally appeared in print, in the Summer/Autumn 2021 Issue.

Matthew Bottiglieri is a poet. He has an affinity to the surreal.