Literature Poetry Trenton Pollard

The Vertigo of Eros

                                    after Roberto Matta

Trenton Pollard

 

I left the bed of another,
did not make it back to yours.

Jettisoned in flight from the tip
of the dragonfly’s wing

I drowned in flame-ripples.
Searched for you in black boxes

& floating pearls.
You did not forgive me.

My regret is that you did not know sooner:
I did not come with a clean slate:

I do not want to be my father.
I do not want to not be my father.

I want to recklessly chase desire
and be overly kind to strangers.

What I thought was a complete shape
revealed itself as a broken line—

were you there
in its brief neon brilliance?

I touched you to know where I was
but the world was mirage:

washes of pink & gold seen up close,
not from afar. In my earliest chamber

six-year-old me lies in grass.
My little hands pull an older boy closer:

these tendrils explode
as if from angels’ lungs.

 

Trent Pollard headshotTrenton Pollard has work forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Lambda Literary, The Journal, and elsewhere. Originally from Michigan, he has worked as a welder, massage therapist, political organizer, and poetry teacher. He lives in New York City, with occasional furloughs in Austin, Texas. He is currently the nonfiction editor of Columbia Journal Online.

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