Poem: Michael Montlack

Illo for Michael Montlack's poem.


You could say I mourn
like the moon, sleepless,
a splintered version of itself
since I left Brazil.

That my heart is too heavy
to throw that far, too huge
for any suitcase, too wired
for another red-eye flight.

You could say: Runway
dry enough for take-off.
Never landing. So I circle
stubborn Jersey clouds

with fresh mud on my heels—
how? I haven’t touched
the ground since I left
you. Anyone could say

something about anything.
Won’t it all sound like
Portuguese? Even the dullest
chit-chat about the weather

and won’t I wonder, Pablo,
what language you hear
when the moon dwindles—
and what you’d say about it?
Michael Montlack is the author of the poetry book Cool Limbo (NYQ Books) and the editor of the Lambda Finalist essay anthology My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them (University of Wisconsin Press). Recently his work has appeared in North American Review, Barrow Street, Hotel Amerika, Tupelo Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Cortland Review, and Painted Bride Quarterly. He lives in NYC.

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