Eli Coyle
My face feels like an emotional relief map
forever wet
My pockets are full of handkerchiefs
that never dry
My green corduroys lie crumpled
on the hardwood floor
saved for later
our bodies wrapped
in the wax of each other
In the mornings the sky cracks open egg clouds
raining private rain
cloud hidden
whereabouts unknown
where I live alone like pith in trees—
mindless like tumbleweed
mindless like sages
Some days I carry on like a responsible hermit
forgetting my name
beneath the shade
of prickly pear cacti
silhouetting horned lizard
Where my trajectory
is a satellite crash landing
the thought of her
a space island
And in the absence of her touch, I am a tourist
I know when I’m home
in her eyes
that are the insides of arriving—
flickering hot fireplaces
seen through the windows
of a winter solstice
Where some days my eyes
are streetlights in the void
crisply burning
blinding the retinas
of untraveled directions—
beneath the boughs of pine trees
forever stuck between seasons
thawing and refreezing
That I am just as lost as anyone
ever looking for celestial footprints.
About the Author
Eli Coyle received his MA in English from California State University-Chico and is currently a MFA candidate at the University of Nevada-Reno. His poetry and prose have recently been published or are forthcoming in: Barely South Review, California Quarterly, Camas, Caustic Frolic, Hoxie Gorge Review, New York Quarterly, The Normal School, Permafrost Magazine, Soundings East, and The South Carolina Review among others.