Annick MacAskill

(After Sappho’s recently discovered fragments)

They might get it wrong: The abbattis of your heart
Had failed, I told you, vacillating before the spaces
Of absence or order. And I promise to call you brother
Even into the tomb.

The abbattis of mother’s house bloomed, pregnant
With TV dinners [...] pomegranate POM juice,
And the dog crying like she knew us but had not
Yet forgotten.

You called up to me, your shared bedroom sinking
In the basement with trophies and stinking of rot
In that lute, your voice. I told you, eunoia is learned
Best with the Blues.

We still tell each other twinkling lights your Lite Brite
Bright like astral bodies and your movement towards
The screen; reached a pink hand to change the channel
And I realize you were eleven,

So far from buying condoms, cigarettes, beer even;
Knowing things, what follows failure; posting bail.
Catastrophes are [not] the only things left: a girl or

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