fog swirls in my water ~ glass ~ rain hashtags the window ~ heaven ~ was closer to earth ~ in ancient Greece ~ goddesses wore the same cloaks as us ~ strolling in marketplaces ~ pulling lightning from pockets ~ in the shape of windflowers ~ aster and iris as currency ~ to pay for pomegranate ~ painkillers ~ I wait for you ~ I see wet leaves ~ I see a school of red fish on an elm ~ I see a boat shaped cloud ~ I write a movie screenplay ~ in text messages ~ you text that your streetcar has short turned ~ and you’re stranded in a downpour ~ I can’t hear your voice ~ I try to reach you ~ but the call drops ~ three beeps ~ a sound ellipsis ~ you send a selfie ~ wearing an orange shirt ~ with a silk-screened image ~ of Bionic Woman ~ a seventies electronic goddess ~ surgical titanium staples ~ keep my cancerous gut together ~ apostrophes ~ I don’t want to know ~ what happens next ~ prophets ruin surprise ~ I can wait ~ to breathe ~ the almond cinnamon of your beard ~ your storm-wet neck ~ I can wait ~ for pathology reports ~ perspective ~ in this meanwhile ~ I’ll double back ~ to a crimson gold autumn ~ when we picked empire apples ~ and made love ~ in an orchard row
Gordon Taylor is a queer emerging poet who walks an ever-swaying wire of technology and poetry. A 2022 Pushcart Prize nominee, his poems have appeared in Narrative, The Malahat Review, Poet Lore, Arc Poetry, and more. He writes to invite people into a world they may not have seen.
