Glen Armstrong
She’ll be coming around more often.
She will blast through
the mountain.
She was away learning that night’s
ever-pending arrival
was at once a perpetually
receding destination.
(It was all very Zen.)
She’ll be catching us in our underwear.
Her six white horses will take turns
gesturing with their skulls,
their majestic jaws like
the bows of ships.
That young couple with the dreads
and foul-mouthed toddler
will spread the word
and organize a potluck.
Once, the forged iron ring framed
an absence over which
we’d never quite recover,
and the worn patch on the lawn
led to another worn patch
of lawn and so on.
There will still be temptations
and paths leading
into the woods,
but for a little while
we will listen
to her crimson songs
and feel blessed,
to be part of something
bigger than ourselves.
We will forgive the blacksmith’s daughter
for showing up
in a miniskirt,
homemade tentacles
sewn to her tight sweater,
feathers woven
into her long dark hair,
for drinking too many
wine coolers
and calling her boyfriend
on her cellphone
in the middle of the event
to complain that,
this feathered octopus person
is not as I expected
her to be.
GLEN ARMSTRONG holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters.