Corey Mesler

C o r e y   M e s l e r

My Devil Girlfriend

Takes me to the edge

of my body. It is

night there. She tells

me she is wearing

nothing but the wings

of moths. I tell her I

cannot see, it’s too

simple. She takes my

heart and puts it be-

tween her honeyed

thighs. My devil girl-

friend is the edge of

my body. She is its night.

A Third Stone

This is Mark Strand’s stone.

This is Greg Orr’s.

They sit on the edge of my

lawn in the moonlight,

the incorporating moonlight,

like watchdogs, crooning.

When I dream it is the

stones I hear singing. Their

lines are not for me.

They are chanting prayers

to Theodore Roethke, to

William Blake. One

morning there is a third stone.

It is smaller than the others but

it glows like the world’s mind.

At Home in the 1960s

The kitchen is quiet

except for the

hum of the waffles.

Your brother sits

in a hobbled chair.

Your mother is about

to say something horrible.

The air is still

like it was in Dallas,

as she waved and waved.

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