By ARAN DONOVAN
wait for me. you have perhaps
been out there and married unsuccessfully
to several ladies. you’ve been maybe
like a feudal lord a little
gluttonous with your helpings, have gulped
up overly life’s rations of love and suffering.
ah well. they are delicious.
I come a little late to the whole shebang,
having wasted substantial time
watching grasshoppers
and reading old books. have acquired,
by way of dowry, an excellent recipe for
roasted chicken, some knowledge,
some philosophy, and a few tricks
(non-rhetorical) of the tongue.
we’ll see about that later. I too
am a little tired. a little wind-bit.
but if hope is a thing, it’s coiled
like a kiterope in my stomach pit.
are you waiting for me? let’s
get on with it
Aran Donovan lives in New Orleans. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hobart, Juked, and Barnstorm Journal and is forthcoming in Permafrost. She tweets sporadically @barelymarigny.
