(Brian Foley)
Brian Foley has poems forthcoming in No Tell Motel, LIT, Puerto Del Sol, Sub Lit, Anti and Avatar Review. He's the author of a chapbook The Tornado is not a Surrealist (Greying Ghost Press, 2008). He edits the online schism, SIR! (www.sir-magazine.org), is poetry editor of Brave Men Press, and runs The Deep Moat Reading Series. He lives in Boston.
Three Poems
Hidden House
The mail comes in at midnight
delivered by quiet carriers
in germ masks,
More and more
I cannot hear the sound of man;
taking heed as if inside an animal
Skeletal babble like ice cubes
floating in a cooking pot
cracking like a back
Old Cold
We battlefields,
gripped like gargoyles
perched on white buildings, panting,
staring down our debt
invisibly fixed under the arm
like a deer tick
It is an old cold,
the sky blue as skin,
holding everything that would fall out
in
House Arrest
Being with you, I hear buildings crumble
Your good looks turn to soil inside me
Shutting out the lights in empty rooms
No one counts the pets we’ve kept as home
In the dark I become a beheaded queen
Wringing my bloody hair into a milk glass
When I run headless through cold rooms
I’m no longer known, only the dog remembers me