2 Poems

supernoveña

Honeysuckle and the cloying scent of a hymnal sung to the Hubble tension favored by distant cosmic bodies, exploding because everything else has been done, tried, and tied up to explain how beauty falls one way and a hydrogen bomb another. When our corpus astrum disintegrates for that slow-motion video called going about daily life, are we just a one-eighth speed explosion that candles? Of course, of course. We will meet our bodies there.

fever pitch 

pouring out static, the bathtubs 

drained silver tinsel upwards. 

there’s oceans worth, a brochure 

made elegy of torque and splendor. 

let’s speak of wings, throughout. 

honeyed cages with a 

subject/object capitulation 

of spring. 

about how a hand might fit 

there or there 

half-hidden in damp leaves. 

the hand bides, it waits— 

a clasp open/closed open/closed

atop the heart's furled flag.

Will Davis (he/they) is a nurse, poem scribbler and solo RPG enthusiast living in their native bluegrass. Author of 'Starter Pistol, Opening Prayer' with Alien Buddha Press. @ByThisWillAlone for further scribbles.