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Poem: Winter Solstice by Beth Gordon
Words by Beth Gordon
Image by Gretchen Gales
When the art in Chicago made me ill, migraine Morse-code in my temporal lobe, when Hopper’s night hawks shed oil-snake skin, tiny scales of Gaugin’s
Morocco trapped between tongue and throat as I failed to swallow, you knew just what to do, interrogated docents and local bakers to find
the closest bar, warm and dark, like half-remembered wombs, and I finally told you, four years later, what happened that night, used my finger-
tip and olive oil to paint her last expression, the back of our tourist map for self- portrait of the artist with bourbon and lime, the bartender brought
unordered shots of mescal without adding to our tab, and I forgot that I was sick, but ten winter days have passed since then. Today your lungs
are clogged with unseasonable fog, your brain trapped in the waking world, and I cannot sing, so I speak you to sleep, tell you fairy tales of cloak
and dagger passengers, how I poured wine into motel cups so we would be prepared for what lay dead on the tracks, the way a high-speed train peeled
off like a funhouse mirror into a different future with one thousand future ghosts and I beat my hand against the window, tried to scream louder
than the weeping whistle, missed my chance to ask the simplest questions, where are you going, who do you love, but you are adrift and do not answer.
1/3/2018 10:14:07 am
One again, phenomenal. I pray that Osmosis does its soft magic with me this new year,
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