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About this poet

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

You Meet Someone and Later You Meet Their Dancing and You Have to Start Again

                              —Heather Christle

You meet someone and inside of them
you know there swells
a small country brimming
with steel and beasts of labor.
You love the country
and so you fear it.
Its flora fascinates you.
You wish to visit, though
you worry you won’t
wear the right clothes, that you'll fail
to order a drink, ask directions,
assure the clerk in the flower
shop you aren’t a thief.
They’re only roses. They remind you
of the one you love.
Even with your eyes closed
in your own mouth you’d know
they’re roses.

Copyright © 2018 by David Welch. Used with the permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Quarterly West Issue 94.

 

Copyright © 2018 by David Welch. Used with the permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Quarterly West Issue 94.

 

David Welch

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

by this poet

poem

The new mystery arrived at midnight
and so the boy swished it like wine between his teeth.
I feel now like I have a purpose, the boy said,
and his audience acknowledged that they understood
and began to cheer as if watching a rabbit untangle itself
from a poorly set trap. Dawn came and the

poem

The audience saw the boy in the distance

discussing what they did not know,

as if entering into the boat at his feet

might take him somewhere soft, a ladle

of milk cooling into an empty glass,

a cloth carrying lakewater off of an oar

to be wrung back into the dark

body of

poem

The apple was not an apple when the rains came
The grave spurned the groundskeeper’s shovel when the rains came

No sacrament    no scripture        There were no reservoirs
save an ark beneath the steeple when the rains came

First the river wouldn’t fill