Ghazal: The night undresses and
Jenna Bazzell
the moon lacquers the cloud shelf, the blooming weight
of crape myrtles. Fog pools. The telephone cables wait
for hawks to perch, to resemble what has passed: lonely
like the dead in the earth, like roots of saw grass waiting
for something else. Until then, I’ll remember I belong
to a family where loss looms inside grief with the weight
of utter ruin, of hail-battered foxglove collapsing. I pray
to what I am not: a cloud of gnats, a womb. My body waits,
wants to slip between mistakes. The hours filled with plumes
of smoke, the volume of fingernails. The unremarkable weight
of a glass door sliding shut. A mouth opening. For the room
to cave in, to stop raining. For tonight’s tight ball of red weight
to burrow inside me. Let it consume me. Let it smell
like burning plastic fumes. Tell me: What am I waiting
for here I haven’t for before? To resume tilling up old
stones, training legume runners. How long must I wait
to be forgiven? Instead, another gloomy day, another
broken broom handle, an empty jar to be weighted
against the dark. Your mouth is not a dead moon. A fawn
attempts to stand assuming it is able to hold up its own weight.
Issue 9, 2017, pg. 44