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Salmon Poetry

Wolf House

Jo Pitkin

Like a constellation, they stand 
transfixed around him,
she dancing as he plays 

piano through the night.
Hot star, blue giant, 
he is luminous in the dark, 

ready to ignite, each act
performed to a full house,
until darkness has fled 

and sunlight stuns them 
to sleep. Left with the dregs 
he coaxes: ‘I can’t sleep 

now – stay with me’, voice 
slippery with alcohol, 
his left eyelid  drooping  

like a fixed wink;
those liquor-surreal 
hours making her 

waver to a nebula. 
A rising star, so like him; 
his gaze fused on her,

a corpse flower bloom
in a wolf house. 
It’s no wonder she fled  

and he lost his sunlight. 
Now, the house
is pitched     to starless.


Copyright © Afric McGlinchey 2012

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