"Glittering Trees" by Kelly Emmrich
Two poems by Meggie Royer
The Architect of Drinking
There was the year my mother got the call a half dozen times
that I was dying. I wonder, sometimes,
about removing a phone from its socket like an iris.
How the difference between the dead and the living
is who gets to say goodbye last.
How the moon is only a moon so long
as the man inside it.
Once, polishing silver for dinner,
my father asked what was so appealing
about not breathing.
There are a half dozen reasons
and only one that’s not painful.
Here, the cicadas lace themselves into Braille
against the window.
If all that’s left to this life
is staying away from an ending
it could be such a good one.
that I was dying. I wonder, sometimes,
about removing a phone from its socket like an iris.
How the difference between the dead and the living
is who gets to say goodbye last.
How the moon is only a moon so long
as the man inside it.
Once, polishing silver for dinner,
my father asked what was so appealing
about not breathing.
There are a half dozen reasons
and only one that’s not painful.
Here, the cicadas lace themselves into Braille
against the window.
If all that’s left to this life
is staying away from an ending
it could be such a good one.
Self Portrait After Rape
Across our floorboards, a dozen egg cartons
holding all my rings. The kitchen quiet in its silver tongue.
There are words for pity.
Planting a dress in the backyard is not among them.
Nor the darkness of your back above me,
one small pain. Sometimes,
it is not so bad, the things we share.
Behind the house, a crow picks
at glitter strands.
I knew you as a man, then,
your mouth against my wrist like an amulet.
Strange, how grief ages us.
I think of you as a boy, time ossifying
ahead of you as if a window,
wondering
how old you were when you knew
that one day you would do this.
holding all my rings. The kitchen quiet in its silver tongue.
There are words for pity.
Planting a dress in the backyard is not among them.
Nor the darkness of your back above me,
one small pain. Sometimes,
it is not so bad, the things we share.
Behind the house, a crow picks
at glitter strands.
I knew you as a man, then,
your mouth against my wrist like an amulet.
Strange, how grief ages us.
I think of you as a boy, time ossifying
ahead of you as if a window,
wondering
how old you were when you knew
that one day you would do this.
Read more of Meggie Royer's work in issue #30 of UtSQ.
Meggie Royer is a writer and domestic violence advocate working in Minnesota. Her poems have previously appeared in The Minnesota Review, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more.
Kelly Emmrich is an illustrator and animator living and working in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her work has appeared in the magazines Moonhood Magazine, Dream Noir, and Meat for Tea. She studied creative writing and animation at the University of Mary Washington. She is currently working as a beer label designer for a microbrewery in Afton, Virginia and also as a freelance animator and illustrator.
