by JC Alfier

Of course she still wants birch groves—all that raucous light.

Wants wasps that drone her Sazerac.

And when the calendar leaves the year behind,
sleet that cools and sings like castanets.

She wants thrift store sales: chipped porcelain cups,
silk roses faded to irony, costume jewelry, LPs
she has no player for—but good god those album covers!

She must have gin and karaoke, film noir
and femme fatales forever, to say nothing
of a pepper grinder for a slab of calamari.

And what of cathedrals to trespass—
all that sleepy candlelight, vestries
to pilfer a chalice under a supersized bra?

It’s true, some seer swearing earthquakes are afoot—
aftershocks to tremble Satan himself.

But let’s order out. Anything greasy since we’re goners soon.

Now just ’cause we’re here and gone, let’s covet
all the names for blue we can: cobalt, teal,
indigo, sapphire, and that loner under the streetlight.

And maybe, most of all, she craves to rise each morning
in the heft of steaming coffee, stretch like a starfish,
lightplay on skin she can live in at last, resolve unshakeable,

taking the new sun to her breasts, her benediction.

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About the Author:

JC Alfier’s (they/them) most recent book of poetry is The Shadow Field. Journal credits include Copper Nickel, Faultline, Fugue, Notre Dame Review, Penn Review, River Styx, and Vassar Review. They are also a collage artist after the styles of Francesca Woodman, Brittany Markert, Deborah Turbeville, and Katrien De Blauwer. They are also on the editorial board of The Miller’s Damsel literary journal. Their favorite apple is Red Delicious, windfallen on a cold autumn evening.