Megan Busbice
oracle reports upcoming natural disaster (and also the death of her dreams)
candles lit
on new years floors
in the old house where the doors
never quite shut. knees
touching, eyes closed, breathe—
I see a volcanic eruption; I see
us all coated in an impossible ash.
on new years floors
in the old house where the doors
never quite shut. knees
touching, eyes closed, breathe—
I see a volcanic eruption; I see
us all coated in an impossible ash.
speak. sing. promise. in
the steamy southern January, a dog comes screaming out into the road in front of us, but luckily I anticipate disaster always. swerving, saving a life already bound for disaster, for the day at least. I see your rattling pickup truck, your golden retriever, the house the two of you live in right down the road from mine. the truck shudders to a stop right before our local geology explodes, right before it all rains black. |
I made breakfast on a tiny budget waffle
iron on the first day of the year. half-baked,
split strawberries, whip cream. three people
rotating between a table for two. we're
talking about how this can only get better, how
we can only get better. your wine bottle and my
sparkling soda from the night before. cheers,
dearest, cheers. to all of us growing old
together. I see the sky go so dark
that the universe might have swallowed us
whole. I see fire raining from the heavens;
I watch your house start to burn. we all
in the end go up in flame together—poised
like we did in that midnight new years chime
when we were young, arms wrapped together,
heads tilted down. I see us preserved in stone
for the rest of eternity, but still, I'm sorry to say
it—I see us all dying young.
iron on the first day of the year. half-baked,
split strawberries, whip cream. three people
rotating between a table for two. we're
talking about how this can only get better, how
we can only get better. your wine bottle and my
sparkling soda from the night before. cheers,
dearest, cheers. to all of us growing old
together. I see the sky go so dark
that the universe might have swallowed us
whole. I see fire raining from the heavens;
I watch your house start to burn. we all
in the end go up in flame together—poised
like we did in that midnight new years chime
when we were young, arms wrapped together,
heads tilted down. I see us preserved in stone
for the rest of eternity, but still, I'm sorry to say
it—I see us all dying young.
the morrigan, on chicago
crow feathers sprouting from the mouth,
endless creatures of the winter waking, beautiful war
in every word. I say look at me like this, head
rolling back, starving for the sky, bones going hollow in anticipation
of an exothermic delight. a goddess with three faces,
depending on when you meet her. the clock stops at the stock
exchange, the train halts over the choppy grey rivers. I can feel
the cold seeping through the cracks, a breath
against the endless plague of living. you call this doom but I say
it is simply just another plunge. prophecy always lines the tongues
of the unloved. I laugh I watch the endonym start
to dawn in the eyes. flight and fear always endlessly together:
that's where Icarus got it wrong. she who knows
death streaks bleak joyful destruction across the heavens, euphoria
coupled with the endless truth of our decay. season of rot
settling in is always my time to begin. I am the bones left over, the
reckoning yet undiscovered, the chill settling over the skin. I say:
take your bliss in the raw edges of this broken world, while you can,
for the moment at least.
endless creatures of the winter waking, beautiful war
in every word. I say look at me like this, head
rolling back, starving for the sky, bones going hollow in anticipation
of an exothermic delight. a goddess with three faces,
depending on when you meet her. the clock stops at the stock
exchange, the train halts over the choppy grey rivers. I can feel
the cold seeping through the cracks, a breath
against the endless plague of living. you call this doom but I say
it is simply just another plunge. prophecy always lines the tongues
of the unloved. I laugh I watch the endonym start
to dawn in the eyes. flight and fear always endlessly together:
that's where Icarus got it wrong. she who knows
death streaks bleak joyful destruction across the heavens, euphoria
coupled with the endless truth of our decay. season of rot
settling in is always my time to begin. I am the bones left over, the
reckoning yet undiscovered, the chill settling over the skin. I say:
take your bliss in the raw edges of this broken world, while you can,
for the moment at least.
in conversation with the ocean on all that has been lost
ten years old, curled up on an unfamiliar
sofa with a new paperback, as the late-summer
ocean-sun peeled in white-gold through
the skylights. my grandmother, cutting fresh fruit
in the kitchen and my grandfather assembling
jigsaw puzzles on a heavy old table. a week in
someone else's rental of someone else's home,
turning serifed page over serifed page and dreaming
of someone else's life. those days I sat in the cold
clear tidepools and let the ocean hold me, curls wicked
in the salt and the wind, pale skin singed and freckles
all over the bridge of the nose and shoulders. at night
I'd lay under some borrowed scratchy sheets, reading
with the open window, listening to the waves whisper
secrets through the night. how young and ancient
was the magic then, caught under fingernails and
hushing across the drawn-out hours. every turned
page, every august word, every creak of the rusted-over
gate down to the sea. in a half-memory like a dream, or
perhaps just a vision, I am still running there, down the dunes,
while the stars stir and the moon exhales hazy white breath
enough to see by, until I reach toes touching the currents
and say: what old psalms of belonging can you teach me?
how can I be young and full of effortless enchantment again?
ocean, ocean—I know you bear witness. how do we reclaim
the old and careless joys?
sofa with a new paperback, as the late-summer
ocean-sun peeled in white-gold through
the skylights. my grandmother, cutting fresh fruit
in the kitchen and my grandfather assembling
jigsaw puzzles on a heavy old table. a week in
someone else's rental of someone else's home,
turning serifed page over serifed page and dreaming
of someone else's life. those days I sat in the cold
clear tidepools and let the ocean hold me, curls wicked
in the salt and the wind, pale skin singed and freckles
all over the bridge of the nose and shoulders. at night
I'd lay under some borrowed scratchy sheets, reading
with the open window, listening to the waves whisper
secrets through the night. how young and ancient
was the magic then, caught under fingernails and
hushing across the drawn-out hours. every turned
page, every august word, every creak of the rusted-over
gate down to the sea. in a half-memory like a dream, or
perhaps just a vision, I am still running there, down the dunes,
while the stars stir and the moon exhales hazy white breath
enough to see by, until I reach toes touching the currents
and say: what old psalms of belonging can you teach me?
how can I be young and full of effortless enchantment again?
ocean, ocean—I know you bear witness. how do we reclaim
the old and careless joys?
from that air bnb in arganzuela
little did I know, that first night would
precedent it all. sweating in the spare
room, listening to the overloud warp
of half-known languages clamoring
through the cracks in the door. despite
it all the broken blinds managed to block
out every last piece of light, and she tells
me: you're very good at making something
from nothing. I know, I know. fevered
insomnia, tip-toe through the creaking night
hall, avoiding the introductions, locking
myself away. someone is speaking
too loud; they are arguing once again. there is
no peace here, sleeping facing the lockless
old doorknob, poised for every potential
violence. I eat crumbs, avoid the morning
heat. I translate, bruise, wither. welcome
to a new life, this half-wanted revolution
on unfamiliar hemispheres. learn to taste
the poison, to love it—each bitter acidic note
of decay lingering on the tongue. this is one long
warm night mania, piecing together the space between
empty half-remembered words. foreign, unforeseen,
stale bread and sour citrus: sleep-walking, unsuccinct
iberian hours gone unraveling and undulating into
all the starved time ahead.
precedent it all. sweating in the spare
room, listening to the overloud warp
of half-known languages clamoring
through the cracks in the door. despite
it all the broken blinds managed to block
out every last piece of light, and she tells
me: you're very good at making something
from nothing. I know, I know. fevered
insomnia, tip-toe through the creaking night
hall, avoiding the introductions, locking
myself away. someone is speaking
too loud; they are arguing once again. there is
no peace here, sleeping facing the lockless
old doorknob, poised for every potential
violence. I eat crumbs, avoid the morning
heat. I translate, bruise, wither. welcome
to a new life, this half-wanted revolution
on unfamiliar hemispheres. learn to taste
the poison, to love it—each bitter acidic note
of decay lingering on the tongue. this is one long
warm night mania, piecing together the space between
empty half-remembered words. foreign, unforeseen,
stale bread and sour citrus: sleep-walking, unsuccinct
iberian hours gone unraveling and undulating into
all the starved time ahead.
all the city's a stage
tableau of a windowed world,
each little lantern life contained
in its box of silence. domesticated
light, kept on the thin leash of the
evening, when we burrow into familiar
aftershocks. something about love,
pantomimed in the silent show of
cutting vegetables on their uncurtained
stage. all of us looking wistfully at each
other, plants lined up on the sill, warmer
and ever warmer bulbs casting a quiet
life in gold. the populous troposphere,
clouds snagging on the periphery, we
float so far from the ground in these
expensive terrariums, these diorama
days. I say into the night: I am doing
my best. I wonder if they watch me speaking
to all the stars I cannot see. someone is
viewing a high-definition drama. the woman
across the alley so rarely comes home. I let them
see me light a candle and sit alone
on a Friday night, until all these
hungry polaroids of living flicker out,
bring us to the eternal urban dusk, too
late. sirens still wailing, I stand at the
edge of the glass, soliloquy to no one,
but still a performance for the ages—
look at all I have to offer, with my perfect
and unrelenting homage to the light.
each little lantern life contained
in its box of silence. domesticated
light, kept on the thin leash of the
evening, when we burrow into familiar
aftershocks. something about love,
pantomimed in the silent show of
cutting vegetables on their uncurtained
stage. all of us looking wistfully at each
other, plants lined up on the sill, warmer
and ever warmer bulbs casting a quiet
life in gold. the populous troposphere,
clouds snagging on the periphery, we
float so far from the ground in these
expensive terrariums, these diorama
days. I say into the night: I am doing
my best. I wonder if they watch me speaking
to all the stars I cannot see. someone is
viewing a high-definition drama. the woman
across the alley so rarely comes home. I let them
see me light a candle and sit alone
on a Friday night, until all these
hungry polaroids of living flicker out,
bring us to the eternal urban dusk, too
late. sirens still wailing, I stand at the
edge of the glass, soliloquy to no one,
but still a performance for the ages—
look at all I have to offer, with my perfect
and unrelenting homage to the light.