person Maayan Avery, three poems

Maayan Avery is a 21-year-old aspiring writer who resides in Jerusalem Israel. She has been featured in After the Pause, Eunoia Review, and Lunch Ticket.

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Topography of A Gold Boy

Oaks full of grime,
GoldBoy visits me once a month;

he hardly pulls thorns from my cheeks
While I sleep-
GoldBoy dresses himself
In my frocks,
gauze,
beads–

between mud and sky candlemass,
I ache to be him
To count his lashes,
opals,
curls
his honeysuckle veins;

so I dwell in forests
lucid dream
to map his silhouette.

twigs, fuchsia, pine cones
prick my feet, saplings
Dead on toothy grass;
a sepulchral bog.

I inspect waste,
call for GoldBoy in a corpse of light—

I can resurrect his monument
To find my missing bone;

Night swerves
Swirls
like halos of starlings.

Martin, why didn’t you tell me?
For years now I’ve cried in your shadow,
pretending it was the sun.

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Insomnia

              Midnight and house static. Backyard fences are spectral; stray cats speak wafers of moon. My pipe, an old lover’s lips. Swimming in candle wax, I am

sleep parachutes and phantoms; an electron to bring back yesterday. After sunset, I clambered upwards from balconies: roofs over roofs to star cluster

mosaics. Shawls of pastel on Saturn. Owls disrobed for prayer; their wings, the church and altar. Utopia now blurred. A missing translation. I search for comets

but slip in catacombs. My pillows eclipse from lace to cotton. The window: a milky hallucination. The horizon swerves; an open vowel. Dear blanket, moth-

scent. I have forgotten the name for a home.

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Musa

I reside in your painting:

A beast milking marrow from moonlight-

Acrylic droplets on honeycombs of cells.

Your garden is full of diamonds; if I cry, they will multiply–

Bring clouds

That refract light—

In your ocean, I wake and call:

I am more hungry     and less fed
I am lesser lonely     and more wed
To your symmetry   but not dead
Rushed                       into silence.

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