Andrea O'Rourke

I miss you, late summer storms, your refreshing albeit anticipated violence,
           your understated arrivals—

like the creeping up of ennui, the muffled build-up of orgasms. Like facing
           long black dresses in the attic,

the brutality of their scents: coal and pepper. I miss you too, wire hangers,
           and the butcher’s twine

wound tight around flesh, how you hold together and up high what no longer is. I            miss you, keyholes

of all the houses I’ve ever rented, your promises of solitude. And you, silent slits of
           mailboxes; miss the static rustle of wheat,

the waving of long ochre blades, how they slant in unison and when they part,            what’s born of the dark.

Return to Fall 2013 Table of Contents