Four Poems by Meg Pokrass

Purplish Bluebells

When I forgive the man who offers
me happy nothingness and then takes it away again,

he smiles through his computer,
teeth like uncultured pearls.

I imagine stepping over the broken bridge
of his faded handsomeness, delivering a bouquet

of cash-and-carry roses.
Thanks for not being here, I say,

touching my cloudy hair,
contemplating an evening of almost promises.

No problemo, he says,
then zips me a video of the beautiful sunrise in Dorset.

It’s Spring, birds are chirping like crazy.
I imagine purplish bluebells

hanging their heads, unable
to open their faces.

*

Arrival

(after W.S. Merwin)

We have come with our slender ages,
our knowledge such as it is,

our hopes, such as they are.
We have come after rushing around

our mother’s house, smudging eyeliner.
We have come with terrible

shoes for the weather. We have come
after checking the mirrors compulsively,

putting on our outdoor faces,
deciding which extravagant hats to wear.

We have come with a doggish smell
after hugging the Labrador too many times.

We have come after warming ourselves
up by practicing in the mirror, after

slouching around on our mother’s empty
loveseat, thinking this is not a life.

We have come to knock ourselves
off the wall backwards like Humpty Dumpty

hiding the cracks in our smiles.

*

Irish Spring

A girl like her will rise early
then later, go back to sleep
with a snug feeling

in her belly. A girl like her,
having recently learned
that she can give herself pleasure

before the sun comes up,
will luxuriate in the wilderness
of her sheets. A girl like her,

hiding a found paperback copy
of The Happy Hooker underneath
her bed with the resident

dust bunnies. A girl like her
meeting up with a neighbour girl
so wild, it makes her feel tall.

A girl like her becoming friends
with the girl, believing herself
to have achieved cool. A girl

like her in the neighbour’s
shower, smashed against glass
by the girl’s brother, staring

at dead mosquitos on a bar
of Irish Spring soap.

*

Snow

Your house deflated so quickly.
There were only three of you now.
You, the dog, and your sad-haired mom
who distrusted dating, yet had no trouble
coaxing approval in the meat section,
affirmation in the flavoured canned fruit aisle,
eye contact near the honey.

You stalked her dark kitchen, burnt toast
but you buttered it anyway, moved
it into your mouth, sucked it til it softened.
Played with the dog by chasing him
around the living room, teaching him
how to chase you back.

When he peed on the floor, you hugged him.
I’m sorry, you said. Mopped up the mess
with an old t-shirt, crammed it into
the Hover twin tub washer that vomited
soap granules. Wore white flecked clothing
as if you were spit on by snow.

*

Meg Pokrass is the author of First Law of Holes: New and Selected Stories (Dzanc Books, 2024) and eight previous collections of prose and prose poetry. Her work has been published in RATTLE, DoDo Erasure, Plume, Waxwing, Hunger Mountain, New England Review and Electric Literature. Meg is the Founding Editor of the Best Microfiction anthology series.