Allyson Boggess

Untitled

This is the day of transformation: green
lungs are waking in dusk’s shelters of light.
Each ream dealt soft through your fingers seems
impossibly gilt. So I have a slight
favor to ask: measure the center stage
that’s blooming just outside your bedroom door.
Weigh carefully the heads of every sage
before you tear those suckers out: please floor
yourself, I am floored by you, new-lunged friend.
Just look at all the roots fingering the ground—
even in the absence of water, they lend
their anchors, ring your head a fibrous crown.
Exhale the sedum, spire like you’re sinking,
like you are land and thirst for what I’m drinking.

Auto Inspection

This is my broken windshield wiper,
      the osteoporotic spine.

It’s a trundle bridge against the glass,
      a cracked suspension.

In the winter, it slung a snow wing
      & held it there, a cataract.

Now tire spray. A smeared deer fly
      fails my eyes. How do I

see you through this streaking,
      this breakdown of rubber.