Renée Lepreau | Two poems
This Is Just To Say
after William Carlos Williams
When hurt I have eaten lava until my belly blistered,
anger stewing the plums I meant to share with you.
It's hard to remember that we're in only this version of time,
and when the icebox is empty, no delivery will fill it.
It’s flooding again. On which island shall I make camp?
Osprey nests crown the river. You were probably eyeing the same
rocky shore, saving the uncluttered beach with its selvage
of fine sand for a warmer day. For breakfast I'll cook regret
on the stove lit with my rose-red breath. Forgive me for squandering
the low tide and the taunts. They were delicious. I believed
we had all our lives, so sweet and hollow. Feel the current
flowing in from the sea, glowing like an opal, and so cold.
When hurt I have eaten lava until my belly blistered,
anger stewing the plums I meant to share with you.
It's hard to remember that we're in only this version of time,
and when the icebox is empty, no delivery will fill it.
It’s flooding again. On which island shall I make camp?
Osprey nests crown the river. You were probably eyeing the same
rocky shore, saving the uncluttered beach with its selvage
of fine sand for a warmer day. For breakfast I'll cook regret
on the stove lit with my rose-red breath. Forgive me for squandering
the low tide and the taunts. They were delicious. I believed
we had all our lives, so sweet and hollow. Feel the current
flowing in from the sea, glowing like an opal, and so cold.
Spring Came to the Commune
The night of Apollo's 40th birthday—Apollo, buck-naked
in person as well as on the cake—how could it have been
otherwise? Warm from dancing, armed with moon angel
makeup, I let a man lead me into the cool November dark
where we sat on the side of the dirt road drinking corn whiskey
infused with dandelion, meadowsweet, mugwort, agrimony.
Hours later, after the van home had left, my friends arguing
my whereabouts & safety, we huddled in his chilly barn loft,
squirrels overhead, & he too had no choice when I asked
to share his bed. From there I entered his world of tight
routines, sensual & encompassing. We tended the goats daily,
cursed wind-blown reemay over winter greens, coaxed onions
in cold frames, liberated garlic. Saturdays we biked to Mineral,
bought pretzels & 40s, sat sometimes on the tracks & sometimes
leaned against that big log, the one he took me over. Our lust
was like that, bark scraping thighs, lashing everywhere. I fell
in love with the braid of belonging as much as I did with him.
Spring came. The loft got old. People didn't seem to really
like each other. My lover's mean streak ran like a coal seam
through our rapture. My mother's watch is still in that far
seed field where it fell out of his overalls, now plowed under
a crop of hairy vetch or winter rye. I searched & searched
& searched until the gong sounds cold & loud & I receded
into the slurry of dusk towards dinner.
in person as well as on the cake—how could it have been
otherwise? Warm from dancing, armed with moon angel
makeup, I let a man lead me into the cool November dark
where we sat on the side of the dirt road drinking corn whiskey
infused with dandelion, meadowsweet, mugwort, agrimony.
Hours later, after the van home had left, my friends arguing
my whereabouts & safety, we huddled in his chilly barn loft,
squirrels overhead, & he too had no choice when I asked
to share his bed. From there I entered his world of tight
routines, sensual & encompassing. We tended the goats daily,
cursed wind-blown reemay over winter greens, coaxed onions
in cold frames, liberated garlic. Saturdays we biked to Mineral,
bought pretzels & 40s, sat sometimes on the tracks & sometimes
leaned against that big log, the one he took me over. Our lust
was like that, bark scraping thighs, lashing everywhere. I fell
in love with the braid of belonging as much as I did with him.
Spring came. The loft got old. People didn't seem to really
like each other. My lover's mean streak ran like a coal seam
through our rapture. My mother's watch is still in that far
seed field where it fell out of his overalls, now plowed under
a crop of hairy vetch or winter rye. I searched & searched
& searched until the gong sounds cold & loud & I receded
into the slurry of dusk towards dinner.
Renée Lepreau is a graduate of the MFA in Creative Writing from UW-Madison and recipient of the William W. Marr Graduate Prize in Creative Writing as well as scholarships from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and Community of Writers. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, TYPO, Seneca Review, The Boiler, Exposition Review, Southeast Review, and elsewhere.
