The Cartographer
Walden: The Demiurge
He built her a house
over dandelion wine
six months to reflect on
a metal fan in the mouth
and a china water pitcher
she brought him weather
the only revolution
a bed of mold and moss
wary of velvet
pouring molasses
through leaden minutes
a broken grandfather clock
and the doorway curved
she slept with bad posture
barefoot in the garden
he bred quail during
certain afternoons
when no child came
a dove was born of the kitchen
as the home was hung with dried garlic
then they knew longing
whispered on the porch swing
die, lover, die.
Mullholland
Go beneath the feldspar, as a rhune among fleas
Tunnel under the edge of forgotten calcite for
You have changed all of me and I am reborn
As Icarus, the wax and feathers melting
My chest is stripped, no longer seeping minerals
Hold out your hand, I will cut it off with speed
Only three more years to gather
As a stream refills itself, I cling to borrowed
Myths of boulder women, dessert creatures
And all at once coriander from my eyes
I am Rhea, hiding my children and suffering no one
Soon the smell of Lysol and remembering
The oak and grafted woodwork stands so
We are similar when courted
Under midnight a single rock, molten
Filled with currency, chemicals, a melody
Lucy Engelman is twenty three years old and currently getting an MFA in Poetryat Otis College of Art and Design. She lives in Los Angeles and iscultivating a garden.
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