Hiraeth
Grant Howington
Trigger Warning: Violence Suicide
the poets have been hanged from trees tonight
each one a gutted salt-cured gar tonight
their legs move to the wind’s sweet tune tonight
like paired-off ballerinas for tonight
while bending branches sway in step tonight
enchanted by the dancing dead tonight
again I’ll sneak into your room tonight
so I can beg you to come out tonight
tomorrow clouds might burst but not tonight
they only leak a bit of piss tonight
because they’re pregnant with spring rain tonight
and since the poets are strung-up tonight
let’s kiss beneath their kicking feet tonight
swaddled in narrow strips of starless sky
