Ghost Hums as They Think of Love
I’ve swallowed it like songs in church
we pulled from the air,
stones willed into meaning
or words molted from some cold thing
fragile as beauty,
the fold between shoulder blades.
In the end the empty
is the hard part,
what to do with the shells
left under the trees. How
we can be so willing,
that we’ll unfold a pair of wings
break all the little bones
and hope
the wind will catch them,
with its still hands.
Morphology 1
winter is not a mouth
asking of you, endless
when I touch you
in my sleep you put your hand
on my chest and find feathers
red and warm beige
a cardinal once flew
into my bedroom window
I couldn’t bring myself to crush its neck
before the cat could get there
so where does mercy fall
among our words of love
sometimes ice forms around fruit
that empties as alcohol and sugar
even still water
will change its shape in time
the buds will form all the same
pink and nascent
this gift I give you, permission
Conor Scruton lives in Milwaukee, where they research ghost stories and are a poetry editor for cream city review. Their work has appeared in North American Review, CutBank, Salamander, and other journals.