Seven Broken Altars (poem)

Seven Broken Altars

by Dauphine Sb



People from Ohio have to come

from somewhere.



I squirrel my writing away

inside the gardening store.

Supposedly writing is a sign

of the loss of the world.



I don’t know

why the relentless achings

of beach-house poets overwhelm

me, their just-so chants

like riptides,

mouths with oceans and stunning salt.



I want sea-lions to invade

Brooklyn. I want the sea-lion

queen to say to Brooklyn:

look, let’s be real, the underpinnings

of the banking industry prop up

your desire to overthrow the

banking industry.



My job is to write stupid poems

before the professors come

back from the hotel bar in the forest.



It’s so easy to mock the provisional

government of sea lions but

do we really have any

other alternatives?

I mean viable ones.



open the hunting lodge of the heart

tell me how to read my life

read the intestines

of the season

make use of me

devotion is not enough

devotion is never enough



I bought this hyacinth

from the supermarket.

It gets cold from the

Baffin Island gales

on the other side

of the window.

I water it.

It waters me back.

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