genesisSpring2016.pdf


4     genesis spring 2016

Lucy, I’m Home
Sarah Turmail

Pal, I need to weep. The rubble of  my life 
is naked, catching cold under the woodpile
while I pair socks, fuss with my eyebrows.
Disillusioned with botched handwriting, 
an epitaph I thought of  just now. 

You lay on the warped linoleum, 
and the curve of  your hip as you hide
your penis from me hangs a crescent moon 

because you left the door open, again.

tears meant for the dog hair dusted 
on the baseboards. The smell echoes 
from his mouth, bouncing from the yellowed 
cavern to the winded light of  dinnertime.

He is Babylon, collapsed after a seven
lapped walk, and if  I fold enough socks, 

that I ever loved whiskey breath and bad teeth.
Pal, I’m leaving, now, to look for the dog.