Lori Desrosiers
Reverie Obscura
I am on a bus,
the mountain road precipitous,
a silver bridge stretches over
churning water below, no railings.
The bus stops, we get out.
I am with a man, perhaps a lover.
The water is gone, now
there is a desert below,
cactus in bloom, green lizards skitter.
I can see for miles.
Sky painting dissolves to fuscia.
Then we are on a train, going backwards.
The world goes by upside down,
a camera obscura, light peeks
through pinhole windows
reflecting on black walls.
We sit upside down
to see the world right side up.
“This is poetry,” he says,
and I am falling now,
falling out of the poem.
Some Answers
Lord, Lord, can you believe it?
The way you water the ferns.
Minor chord on a piano, resolves to major C.
Where the icicles used to hang.
The coat hooks on the wall are not even.
Trains backed into engine houses, ready to start out again.
Painted flypaper unstuck
The way I look at you sometimes.
Bridges crumble in your eyes.
Cold and blue with drips of water rushing into grates.
Lori Desrosiers spent her youth frolicking on the banks of the Hudson River, but now calls
Westfield, Massachusetts her home. Her chapbook of poetry, Three Vanities, was recently
published by Pudding House Press. She is the publisher of Naugatuck River Review, a journal
of narrative poetry. When not running around to poetry events, she likes to play her guitar
and eat sushi, although not at the same time.
Home
Issue Three
Reverie Obscura
I am on a bus,
the mountain road precipitous,
a silver bridge stretches over
churning water below, no railings.
The bus stops, we get out.
I am with a man, perhaps a lover.
The water is gone, now
there is a desert below,
cactus in bloom, green lizards skitter.
I can see for miles.
Sky painting dissolves to fuscia.
Then we are on a train, going backwards.
The world goes by upside down,
a camera obscura, light peeks
through pinhole windows
reflecting on black walls.
We sit upside down
to see the world right side up.
“This is poetry,” he says,
and I am falling now,
falling out of the poem.
Some Answers
Lord, Lord, can you believe it?
The way you water the ferns.
Minor chord on a piano, resolves to major C.
Where the icicles used to hang.
The coat hooks on the wall are not even.
Trains backed into engine houses, ready to start out again.
Painted flypaper unstuck
The way I look at you sometimes.
Bridges crumble in your eyes.
Cold and blue with drips of water rushing into grates.
Lori Desrosiers spent her youth frolicking on the banks of the Hudson River, but now calls
Westfield, Massachusetts her home. Her chapbook of poetry, Three Vanities, was recently
published by Pudding House Press. She is the publisher of Naugatuck River Review, a journal
of narrative poetry. When not running around to poetry events, she likes to play her guitar
and eat sushi, although not at the same time.
Home
Issue Three
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Chickenpinata
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| a journal of poetry issue three |
