You’re akin to a kitten on fire. Your hair harpoons black barb & lily irons without release. Release me. Late at night the neighborhood ducks huddle. I polish my nails with tar. I read the ceiling for progress, purpose. You’re somewhere in this dark Sistine Chapel dancing with an ice cube on your tongue, a Molotov cocktail & the lit matchsticks your pupils become when the sky goes blank with sin. I don’t want to be in your room again. I bury myself in the spaces between spaces with glue & a dirty cue ball. I land in every pocket. I cannot escape the wet dryer sheets or the Polaroid of the treasure map of your forehead. Tell me the one where the clay pigeon is tossed high & the rifle is cocked & I’m the bullet & you’re the shatter & the sun fiddles the song that creates beauty out of such a loud nothing.
ABOUT THE POET Philip Schaefer’s collection Bad Summon (University of Utah Press,
the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize, while individual poems have won
published by The Puritan, Meridian, and Passages North. His work has
featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and in The Poetry Society of
recently opened a regionally focused Mexican restaurant called
The Camino in
ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW We loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), and we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We're featuring audio recordings of poems from our pages, read by the poet. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.