Author Archives: Stevie Edwards

About Stevie Edwards

Stevie Edwards is a poet, editor, and educator. www.stevietheclumsy.com

Three Poems From “Humanly” – Stevie Edwards

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Bourbon
after Franz Wright
 
I can see something a little shaky behind
your left eye. A spooked mule
hauling your mind out of this pleasant
gathering of academics:
 
One esteemed novelist says, 
Do you have a question
for me? I’m here. I can tell you things.
 
And at least he’s being honest
about how he sees you as less than
his drunk brain.
 
I like how your uncertain fingers tap
the wood bar as your credit card barrels
toward maxed out.
Doesn’t each ladylike knuckle love me
more than men?
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#7 – Three Poems – Stevie Edwards

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This week, Drunk in a Midnight Choir celebrates our One Year Anniversary! Since we launched on February 6, 2014, we’ve had the great privilege of publishing a whole lot of amazing work, from a wide array of talented contributors. All week, we’ll be catching you up on some highlights from the last year. Here we present to you the top ten most-read posts of the year, counting down from ten.
 


Long Distance Aubade

Spun in the sugar plum daze of daybreak, your face
across a diner table eating hashbrowns off my plate
is so here I could wink at it,
could touch my chin signaling to wipe beard crumbs,
could touch your chin signaling
to kiss soon as the waitress isn’t looking,
which might be often, the coffee only lukewarm.
Sometimes it’s a long time. It’s okay. It’s a dream. Continue reading

Three Poems – Stevie Edwards

unmadebed1

 

Long Distance Aubade

Spun in the sugar plum daze of daybreak, your face
across a diner table eating hashbrowns off my plate
is so here I could wink at it,
could touch my chin signaling to wipe beard crumbs,
could touch your chin signaling
to kiss soon as the waitress isn’t looking,
which might be often, the coffee only lukewarm.
Sometimes it’s a long time. It’s okay. It’s a dream.
We tip as much as we can. Most times
I wake alone and gaze at the same sky you gaze at
through broken blinds. I’m certain
it’s what you’re doing right now as I fumble
for glasses, pick out wrinkled clothes
from a laundry basket, never folded but clean,
brace myself against the too cold
of a stingy landlord who stifles the heat at sixty-three.
I’d rather press my nose into your chest
than teach Frankenstein to freshmen.
This is what I do: I wake in a nest of your hair,
which isn’t here but smells of peppermint,
kiss where I’d like your brow to be,
leave the bed unmade, wait for the bus
in a puffy down coat. Sometimes it’s a long time.
It’s okay. There are dreams. We hold
each other as much as we can.

Continue reading