THREE POEMS

By Bayley Sprowl

 

I MADE THE WHOLE THING UP

 

My back against bricks, we kissed dry-mouthed, flat as punctuation
—that’s the wrong place to start. Better to be barefoot on the patio,
October on our breath, late-monthed and late morning, nearby.

I begged at your doorstep daylight-steeped, hair still tumbled with
sleep. I pawed so long you’d turn the latch, admit nothing, take up
your guitar. Scratch I did, morning after night after morning,
thinking myself the poet, thinking myself a woman you might love.

Our last night in the city, too broke to order wine, we passed gin
under a tablecloth as jazz skimmed our fingers. If hands touched,
that part’s true. When it was over, you tossed my bone (it’s time):
a kiss for convention, back against bricks, flat as we ended our sentence.

             But god you were harsh when we
             fell asleep in a bed too small for friends.
             You still turn me on when you turn tender,
             change topic, hang up the phone.
                      I remember—you blink so strangely
                      like something’s about to hit you.

In that photo on the balcony, what was in our gaze?
Someone caught us in pajamas carving pumpkins. We don’t
face each other, but turn to look. We hollow their eyes, lock ours.

 
 

MY HEART IS A HORSE WITH WINGS

My heart is a horse with wings, my heart’s afield.
My heart is a horse with wings that kicks in a field.

                                           HEART HEART look up,
                                           Horse-heart, heart of wings,

         Look at me! but
  
  

My winged-horse
heart kicks at the edge
of a fenced-in field,
forgetting that it flies.
  

I want to say, Whose heart is this, put out to pasture?
I want to say, Hush heart all horse’s wings, fall quiet,
  

                                                                              float to me,
                                         winged-thing.
                                                      Quit that kick.

                            Look up, ease
                                              up, take

                                       flight.

 
 

I FORGOT THE LIGHTHOUSE

Everything was
flooded. Another
road closure. A sign
to see a lighthouse,
so we turn.
Landscape
overreacts to
sunlight through
rain-laundered air.
Sheep spackle hills
like pigment in a Pollock,
so many we ask
if they’re real.
I love how
the cows lay,
bellies
cradled in grass,
so I say, “The cows
love the way wet grass
licks and cradles
their bellies.”
Like air through
organ pipes, marble cold,
cliffs so tall they wobble
stretch from ocean.
Five deer nosh
along the hillside
and I say, “One is
wearing earrings,”
and you say, “Probably
some sort of research,”
and we silently agree.
Peninsula splits
the sea into two
drawn curtains—
giant drapes
of saltwater
that scribble
frothy zigzags
toward Point Reyes.
Tall with wonder,
we flock the
indentations of our
profiles in kiss,
wear cliffsides
like sets of high shoes.
We walk the ocean,
giants in love,
lifting sheep
from the steep on our
fingertips, ants
we inspect
and blow away.

Bayley Sprowl will get rid of your ghosts. Loosely based in LA, she's a resident poet in that she's always writing at your place. Bayley believes in chemistry and favors the elements: soil, water, breath, and heat. If you'd like to get in touch, check the closest ocean or your local farmers' market where you'll find her making mountains out of molehills and vice versa. Rare bird. Plays the fool. Preoccupied with stars. Bayley's got a lot of layers—don't be surprised if her jacket ends up in your car.

© 2020