The snake is a sleeve the deer puts on, its mouth a beaded cuff in the haze men make of morning with each release of their fist-gripped guns. Is this a dream of shame? Is this a dream of potential unmet, of possibility undone? School, no pants. Brush, no teeth. Podium, no poems. Open door, all wall. Dear Monster, none of the guests we disinvited arrive. In the darkness no lion comes. Copyright © 2019 Lisa Olstein. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 7, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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