#10 – Three Poems – Meggie Royer

On February 6, DMC celebrates its TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! 
Holy mackerel, time flies. It's been a great year. We've published 
hundreds of pieces this year that we feel proud and honored to 
share, and we also put out our first book! This week we will be 
counting down the Top Ten Most Read posts from our second year of 
existence, and will present #2 and #1 on Saturday, February 6. 
Thanks for being part of a wild and excellent two years.


@ The Poet I Become When I Drink

Look, we both know everyone in your life who knows better
is glad your 21st birthday doesn’t fall on a Friday.
But the truth is, you’ll still party anyway
soak your angel cake in alcohol then light the candles
& the whole thing will go up in flames.
And you’ll say fuck it
and gorge on all the ashes
as long as they’re enough to get you drunk.
What was it you did at 20? A whole year with only a few shards
to remember. That’s what addiction does.
Mourning the eight inches of hair you cut off
& the man-shaped mold someone left on the only moon
you could see from your front window.
Can’t even remember his name now. Chances are,
it was just a one-night stand.
Chances are, the whole time you two were kissing
you were blacked out. 

 

			

			
							

Five Poems – Meggie Royer

Stomaching

It was at night that you broke, Mother, climbing from slumber
like a trout raised from water, its edges dipped in salt,
how you descended the stairs
to spin wet clay into vases,
their bowled bodies taut with beginnings.
They said you’d been sleepwalking.
With closed eyelids rimmed in shadow,
you turned & turned your way
out of a life you didn’t want.


Paleontology

Imagine my husband resurrected as a mammoth,
his tusks fierce with the milk of marrow,
how the floorboards bow beneath him.
And I, like Saint Catherine of Siena, 
trying to make up for all he has given us.
Each day I lessen. 


		
	
				

The Butterfly Catcher

My grandmother spoke of the lines on the backs of her palms
as rivers leading to a dry stream bed, her callouses
as individual countries waiting to be occupied
by my grandfather’s mouth. She told the future not in tea leaves
but in the mounted butterflies of her childhood. 

				

Three Poems – Meggie Royer

@ The Poet I Become When I Drink

Look, we both know everyone in your life who knows better
is glad your 21st birthday doesn’t fall on a Friday.
But the truth is, you’ll still party anyway
soak your angel cake in alcohol then light the candles
& the whole thing will go up in flames.
And you’ll say fuck it
and gorge on all the ashes
as long as they’re enough to get you drunk.
What was it you did at 20? A whole year with only a few shards
to remember. That’s what addiction does.
Mourning the eight inches of hair you cut off
& the man-shaped mold someone left on the only moon
you could see from your front window.
Can’t even remember his name now. Chances are,
it was just a one-night stand.
Chances are, the whole time you two were kissing
you were blacked out.