Saturday 5 May 2018

1 Poem by Bridget Malley


Lover, come over, come under my weather. The storm’s blown over (I am the storm).
And you, your weather, the color you paint your mirror to hide confined reflections -
oh lover! Come over! We’ll weather these shoulders, cold as the rows
of clouds hanging over us. The fluorescent light hanging over us.

You touch, I flinch, then sink into a steadiness I was never used to.
Mama grew gardens, you say. Papa taught us to pray for rain. We wore holes
in our jeans; summer storms for the growing things. I never met one as good as you.

Oh, lover. It’s over. I’m a tsunami that has broken here on this porch.
How can rain love the sun that breaks over waves of grain?

Call me a disaster, dear, and I’ll tell you my name.


Bridget Malley is a writer and poet from the suburbs of Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Uppagus, Rune, and The Loyalhanna Review, among others. Visit her on Twitter: @theMalleykid

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