Margaret Schnabel

Burning Season

you would call it American loneliness
                                                 -Alicia Ostriker

I.
In the deep black cradle
                 of night’s ribs,

Midwest blinks its eyes open.

How small are we?
your eyes flick
skyward.

Dirt-under-fingernail. Mosquito bite
on July’s collarbone.

Okay, but. Seriously.

Big enough to try,
at least.

II.
You used to rise
                             like a
                             lighthouse
in the cornfields.

III.
Loneliness so thick
it cuts like cherry pie--
              I used

to speak French, you said
in that 3am voice, yellow light

hugging your sides.
                Apricot nails
                skating teardrops in the air.

Ma cherie,
                how long
                will our tongues
                              curl into themselves?

IV.
Like trembling birds, we swallow
                anything we can claw free.

---

Hotel California

I.
Open parenthesis.
This body: postscript,
barco of loneliness.

This spine: a dozen
cupped palms,
                          waiting.

                Fold me nine hundred
                and ninety-nine
                paper cranes.

                I will lay my head
                on the shrine
                of our almost. I will

                let blackberries bloom
                at the tips of my fingers.

Look at me with that
fisheye mouth, everything open,

then leave. In that hoodie,
those scuffed canvas shoes.
Drag your sensible gray luggage

onboard,
pop in the earbuds,
the Sinatra, ask the

tired flight attendant
for a cup of water. Drink.

Look out
of the papercut window,

and watch
Chicago’s glittering blood
                slip downstream.

               
                Do not
                think of me.

II.
In one of the deleted scenes,

we press our backs
against scratchy orange floral carpet

and stargaze at the ceiling.

Cherubs drift and lilt
above our heads,

dizzying eggshell blue,
                                             blue,
                                                           blue,
 
                This is
                a fan favorite.

III.
Dear yesterday,
Dear almost,
Dear           ,

Find my ghost
in Hotel California,

spinning
under a million chandeliers
of open mouths.

--
Margaret Schnabel was born and raised in Indiana. Her poetry has appeared in Alexandria Quarterly, Literary Orphans, and Words Dance Magazine, among others, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is the 2017 recipient of the Hoosier Creativity Award for poetry.