New Poetry by Sam Moe

Fireweed

Late, lilac-infused dawn, pine trees for once

that ridiculous lake into which fall shoes in the summer,

a bird who shares your middle name, rats, combs

covers, gold, mica, plunder dough and the rain

that came at the end of the month and lasted through

the holiday, coated your mailbox in mud and mushrooms,

decay. The obsession of the fawns, your doodles

in the corner of a recipe book, your forgetfulness,

a spoon on the edge of the sink just in case you wanted

to eat the batter again, eggs from someone else’s

chicken, maybe you should leave your windows

open, this isn’t about nerves or apples curved against

copper leaves and a deep sense of abandonment,

this isn’t about the argument or the clover, eucalyptus

in jars, wildflower and buckwheat, how soft the blossoms

were when we gathered them in our hands. False and

vanilla cinnamon, lace down the halls, our friends come

over for dinner, they leave bells in pots, discs with lungs,

ornaments and taffy, marshmallow and too much cream

in coffee, later we’ll lie on the floor. And I’ll spread my

arms in the mist, angelic during evening mist, I’ll tell you

I’m drowning. Everything smells sweet and warm. You think

I’m joking so we both laugh, and you feed me spoonsfuls

of honey.

- © Sam Moe 2022

Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.