Roses in May

Jill Mceldowney

Leave it alone. Practice
abandon. Bury it.

The earth never moved by my prayer.

There are shovels there are hacksaws here.

We balanced the blade, called to the mouth of the cave
at the end of the day. You know what happened

where the head, the hooves, the silver stopwatch lie buried,
the rest of the body
effaced as the sky.

Now horses remind you of dead horses and
the axis does turn
so far from home.

But I know the way through moonless timber,
secret graves, blood on my teeth,
fire-candy licked to its core—

there is a part of me looking straight at you,
and the rest of me is trying to look away.

It is early May and someone is singing.

Jill Mceldowney is the author of Otherlight (YesYes Books), winner of a North American Book Award, and ALYDAR (forthcoming YesYes Books), a recent finalist for the National Poetry Series. She is the founder and editor of Madhouse Press. Her work can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Frontier, Prairie Schooner, Muzzle, and other notable publications.

Instagram and X: @jillmceldowney