MUSÉE DU MAL
Scalp the incalculable balances, trap the indelible gray--
We arrange the night, climb its ladder to a point.
In our painting a boat is a beginning, and in our bedroom
bodies are corridors pumping red planes.
We’ve been dropped on a pool table without pockets,
we walk the rocking sea of walking. Air twists the eye bed.
You stare at my tackle:
this is my hangnail straddling a hammer handle,
here’s my flute plugged with gum.
The look of our stuff is something.
This photograph in a bus is a photograph of us for the future.
Your look’s a dizzy bridge, a wood jut, and I’m staged a gun.
There’s no room to shoot our poem’s problem and no way
to embrace its baby’s white face. A mouse runs the clock down
to gate the gusto pulled from the throats of berets. Bang. Bang.
Sally Delehant is a graduate of St. Mary’s College of California’s MFA program. Some of her work can be found in Calaveras, Columbia Poetry Review, The Cultural Society, Catch Up: Emerging Writers Issue and iO: A Journal of New American Poetry. Her first book of poems, A Real Time of It, is forthcoming from The Cultural Society in spring/summer 2012. She lives in Chicago.