Maggie Glover earned a BA from Denison University and an MFA from West Virginia University, where she was awarded the James Paul Brawner Poetry Award in 2007. Her poems have appeared in The Journal, Smartish Pace, Controlled Burn, 32 Poems, and other literary journals. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA.

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That fingerless September, I held on

 

to whatever was left, which wasn’t much:

 

gratuitous palm, silly forearm. I asked,

 

Love, I am good with strangers. I am an instant friend.

 

Behind the owl barn , I listened to a man

 

tell me about his garden of bruise-colored cacti, 

 

their brutal leaves and difficult arrangements.

 

That night, shirt open, he panted like a mung fish,

 

nightmarish and ugly. Please—

 

I left him there. I found you later,

 

crouched on the porch steps,

 

holding a magnifying glass to the sun,

 

burning holes into the wood because you wanted to.

 

I let you. What can I say? You stuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The world is smuggled white.

 

We roll the crystals into trapped galaxies: 

 

a root-nose, mouth of pennies, black coal

 

to stare and stare. My niece wraps

 

two scarves around his neck,

 

silver buttons along the stomach bend.

 

Branches sag to touch us,

 

one thousand thumbs.