Maureen Alsop
Contributions

Maureen Alsop is the author of Apparition Wren; she is an assistant editor for the Inlandia Institute publications committee, and teaches creative writing under the auspices of the Institute. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Typo, Barrow Street, AGNI, among others.

Ilex Road

We drank behind the barn
which came with its own sky.
We drank until elegies bore
pattern.
You turned your eyes into the
furze
or maybe it was milkweed.


Alnus Road

A variable tumescent held the gate open to a plasticized universe without petticoats.
Anger parched reflections upon cigar box. Named after gunpowder. My horse-
tongue ruby. O, my horse-tongue.









Betula Road

A small green patch in the gravel where our lady of moss now gives

brodieas an auric scar. O, forgive us. We don’t mourn the loss of water deep enough
to be medicinal—

The seer hides in steeplebush, casts us into sparrow stasis. Until we are banished by
yarrow’s yellow umbel. We wanted



                                         to go back to the dominion of angels.
                                         We each mapped etiquette’s extremes,
                                         then went forward uncensored.

                                         Without you

                                         there was that other place. The soul
                                         craved

                                         its crawlspace traced with lavender.






Hamamelis Road

Muriel followed my grandmother
from hill to hill, spitting wide her amethyst hair.

Calcium emptied all through cornfields. Her seersucker dress
stopped among calculated rows of pigeonweed. I wanted to kiss her.



Hedera Road

The horse returned. Miasma between doorways, time
beyond the sun. This wasn’t the first god. Just as, in the century’s last pages,
night herons returned, milk oiled, dusted in the cinnamon surface of seed. Consider
here the deity who marveled. The one

who traveled through mirrors to capture
the size of death, the curve of it inside the physical
fear of men. John,
she’d say, the body is coming
. All

through the house sibyls chattered—given
reason to translate birdsong so that you might recognize her voice within
the mimicry of church bells,

her syntax, that rusted key
Ziplocked in saltjar, would open the sonnet, but you
were lawless. Without convention, you reminded
her of heaven. This

is where you started. Where you felt it. Most days it was so

simple to love, and to give everything but—
neon vacancy signs, pools
of candy-light, inlets of roadside motels, like a hidden
curiosity for the obsolete—love.