Poetry, Brody Alix
Pure mathematics (apologia)
I fell in love with you, again,
watching you mount the bookcase to a brick wall
loudly, painfully —
the neighbors must have moaned.
Coated in pearlescent light from the massive
stained glass-topped window,
a London diffusive cast
softened accrued dark wood, stacks of magazines,
half-mopped canvas, and lighters.
We laugh together in bed,
a lost art,
silly and intimate —
two little spring branches brushing buds;
a silvered, clean stream suturing snow-heaped banks.
Breathing against autumn,
I thumb your beautiful corners —
after Apollonius: for this and for no other reason.
Rome, two thousand and fourteen,
the dead poet's apartment where shaded from a small window rest a single bed;
two rolls of red, incommensurable, smothered shutters —
spilling bloody solitude over the room.
October: cobalt
Devilish days: hung, strung, listless
Beads of rain cling to dogwood
Jazz autumn in curtails
Body made ripe, like fridge-cold salted radish
Rhapsodize the delusion of intimacy
Laid up bareback on degenerate facade
Fresh as talc
Threadbare investiture
Clotho speaks her vengeance
Midnight blue concrete is mine.
Brody Alix is a Canadian writer and poet. She holds an MA in English Literature from University College London. Her work has appeared in flo. literary magazine, Common Ground Review, and was featured as part of Pride Toronto 2022. You can find her on Instagram @brodyalix
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