Des Matons
I had thought whatever we have been building
will be walking of its own accord come midnight,
as if a hand inside the body were gently closing
into a fist. A fern grew out of the earth and astonished
the remaining senses, form grew into a night tree—
a “truly exceptional case” said the court. Other bodies
came out to play—withholding evidence,
branching out into fresh light. Eventually wondering
not, ‘Who should I vote for?’
but, ‘Is this incompatible with my existence?’
Those who were apprehended given a case number,
handcuffs affixed to each leaf—I want so much
to see things for how they truly are—could the tree do it?
Safety cannot be found in the magic 8 ball alone,
the assertion of people as single letters—
E throwing up in the flower pots, still reeling
from the tear gas. I wanted to be this, and then I wanted
to be that, then finally I wanted to be what I could
no longer, and so here I am.
Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. She is the 2019 recipient of the C.D. Wright Memorial Scholarship to the Community of Writers in Olympic Valley. She keeps an infrequent portfolio and tinyletter, Shedonism.
