Shots through the lobby walls. Wails. Termed elevated, teemed
nasturtiums, turned general illness. The patient presented
with something to follow. Fall: I said you were my patient.
When we were on the kitchen floor
I foresaw none of it, ran into the greener you;
in your face I heard a clanging.
I bought a pound of mixed candy
at the Viet place to handle something,
cellophane, do you see the moon, it’s orange,
I see it mornings and nights. The store owner
placed tea lights, light struck foil,
got into me while you trained speedless and staccato
toward an internal pavilion. It follows
between silver and mauve, the first lard-unloosening
in the chest, your eyes those coal-pits bring my attention
to process – I’m slower than all else, the city inside you,
emergency sirens, helicopters touching down to harvest
in wait, all because I stayed to time of trauma,
preferring to see whether held or admitted.

Continue to “orb pretty plain”

About the Work

E.G. Cunningham

E.G. Cunningham’s poems have been published in Breakwater Review, Thread, The California Quarterly, and Muse Apprentice Guild. Originally from South Carolina, she is a graduate of the University of South Florida and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She lives in Athens, GA.

back to:

From the Archives