It is always October when I allow
a furrow of lightning in. What a fool--
to want everything the skin can know.
A window is the cruelest part
of any house. It tames the whole blue
orchestration of sky. My heart, inert,
wants a little continuity, just enough
to survive the bolt, mind intact,
bones branching with electricity.
I never said it would be easy.
Will I know the noise and gold
of these backbones?
It’s not love that calls me out the sill
to where the animals are unafraid.
It is thirst. I would swallow every thought.
I want my place in a snarl of laurels--
neglected, wholesome, and unmade.
Give me my hour with the immortals.
Meghan Maguire Dahn grew up in the middle of the woods, alongside fisher cats and deer, beavers and coyotes, and a whole unintended aviary. Her first poem was published in Highlights Magazine and read primarily in waiting rooms by children nervous about getting shots or stitches. Her work has also appeared in Boston Review, the Long River Review, the Beloit Poetry Journal, Cartographer, and ellipsis…a journal of art and culture. She was a winner of the 2014 Discovery/92nd Street Y Poetry Prize (judges: Eduardo Corral, Rosanna Warren, Susan Mitchell, and John Ashbery). She is currently completing her MFA at Columbia University’s School of the Arts and lives steps away from Manhattan’s only forest.