EMELIE GRIFFIN

Portrait Box

 

 

when I met you
I wanted to construct
a concrete cube
with an open top

 

fill it with clear water
half-way
and then tell you, this is how
I think of you

 

but salt water
but not clear
not concrete

 

unfired clay
so the salty dark water
will slowly dissolve it

Anthropocene Botanic

 

 

Even now, hypnotized
blooms hinge

 

open like our knees
in unfelt dark.

 

Hold their width
against space

 

as day advances, climbing
with its heat

 

all over everything.
I ask, what is all over

 

the ground here, that glistens
from beneath

 

the punctured earth.
You say it is the eyes

 

of small creatures, aching
for their mates

 

who could be close. Let
enter your mind the white

 

clay bank,
the dripping watermelon,

 

unlaced shoes empty
on the rock.

 

The sounds of dogs getting after
coyotes at night,

 

their men on foot behind,
to find, to see into the wet

 

eyes of, but not even to kill,
how the coyote, cornered,

 

lies down and looks back,
then looks away.

 

We have been satisfied plenty,
it isn’t that.

Emelie Griffin comes from the Florida panhandle, and is a poetry candidate in Syracuse University’s MFA program.