“Three Rain-Soaked Etudes in Complete, Uninspiring Sunshine” by West Ambrose

I.

Whatever, whatever, it isn’t good anymore…

I want the outline of the thing, the dream you made me 

to fit over a white blazing moon–

to turn every other fault inside out, fix the lens and 

disappear from the gradient, filtering through as pure light.

I want the picnic basket, the burrow, and the creature 

with sharp teeth that only eats bloodstained

castles for dessert. I want the marble, steady–

glazed and unmalleable, 

to come to life with a kiss hotter than the cobblestones in Catania. 

Whatever, whatever, it isn’t You anymore…

I want the outline of the thing, the first punch, the swift sting, 

the dream you made me, the promise that died with Soon. 

II.

We should know that somehow, this too, is also not love.  (But one day I will not pray, 

sing, sigh or even stare at the wall— screaming tiny pieces of You into existence until I am full).

III.

One day I will be Divine to someone 

the way all creatures are divine to me. 

And divine I will be starved to the bone,

transposing every other movement 

into Hunger, the way a sonata

transposes all other noise into silence– 

this is an orchestration 

and this is a figment of Your selfishness and most of all 

This is what it means to be complete… 

(and we should know that somehow,

this too, is also not love.)

About West Ambrose
He/Him

West Ambrose is a scrivener and performing artist. Check out his ever queer works at westofcanon.com. If you want anything published in The HLK quarterly or The Crow’s Nest, just ring for the masthead, and let them know.