by Brent Fisk

You see everyone gather. They drink wine
until they break the dangling lights.
There are no doors for you
to enter, just thin windows
to look through, to see
the bright red skirts, the flash of zippers
on black dresses. Someone says your name.
You hear what could be laughter.
The last of the lights go out.
People dance in the darkness.
You take off your body like a sweaty coat.
Listen, there are other parties high in the trees,
beneath the rocks that litter small creeks.
The music of a nursing rabbit, a snake
curled beneath an old cinder block.
You wait in the street like a fallen branch.
You dream of ice.
You dream of the movement of ice.

 

 

Brent Fisk is a writer from Bowling Green KY who has work in recent issues of Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Southern Poetry Review and Southeast Review. He won honorable mention in last year's Emerging Poets contest at Boulevard and he is a four time Pushcart nominee.