Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019

Little mad song

Little mad song

Photograph via Flickr by Guy James

In this inverted garden,
I’m going insane again.
Writing letters to silence,
repeating the wrong dance.
When my mind decants in a glass,
kissing the air, when my body
hangs from yours
like a shot down goose
— crimson and carmine
as if both were nothing —
they are nothing.
You know the song.
You are the song.
I can’t sing it.
Sing it for me.
You know the words,
my legs, your mouth,
your weight, my weight,
this weight of ours.
Sing, sing, sing.
Oh please, darling,
don’t stop.
I can’t get used
to this absence of yours.
In this flawed garden,
this unending gutter,
I can’t get used
to the weight of ether.