/stephanie seabrooke

The Rapture

Now that I’m a sweet burn blighting into cobalt I can

finally dredge up the dust in the corners. That sorcery

settling on my baseboards is what made the ancients

whimper – flecks of meteorite frayed by Jupiter, ash from volcanos

long gone sullen, wisps of woman skin. Bleach spells

are a poor substitute for constitution but I’m still

young and so is my shore. I’m still stupid and parting

this fool’s gold heart on a twin bed split by boy sweat

and seafoam cirrus. The colt in me sleeps until September, knowing

that home is the best place to billow. Here the hardwood cracks against

the grain and grows home to unwashed ants. Here the cabinets

keen at the bone china verged in vines. Here the windowsills

are sugared with lead that flays my throat like a toffee bullet.

Look at that bud vase shot through with sunshine and tell me I’m not intact.

Watch me lick these walls redolent of wine sauce and choke back the rapture.

Once I only held my hangnail sacred but now I’m on my knees when the twilight

sweeps the ceiling, lilting praise to the lip between balm and doom. Sainting what

staves me: fresh lavender held flush with my welts. Besotted squirrels

swapping vows on a power line. A stab of lightening over obsidian,

bounding for the ground.

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Stephanie Seabrooke’s work explores identity, relationships, the subjectivity of perception, and the inexorable march of time. Her poems have appeared in The Shore, Kissing Dynamite, and Q/A Poetry. She holds a BA in English from Towson University and resides in the Baltimore metro area. You can follow her on Twitter @StephSeabrooke.

Watch me lick these walls redolentof wine sauce and choke back the rapture. Once I only held my hangnail sacredbut now I’m on my knees when the twilight sweeps the ceiling, lilting praise to the lipbetween balm and doom. Sainting whatstaves me: fresh lavender held flushwith my welts. Besotted squirrelsswapping vows on a power line. A stab of lightening over obsidian, bounding for the ground.