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.


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,

between mud and sky candlemass,
I ache to be him
To count his lashes,
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
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.



              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.



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.