Alison Lubar

I. Weaving Prophecy

you pull me back into myself, 

phantom mending golden filament:

vision revised through delphic swirls of melted ice in rye, 

within the curled rims of paper coffee cups.


II. Summer Arbor

transformed new and foreign

my every petal shivers, 

            even leaves mistake you in moonlight for the sun.


III. Open, as

a letter, tulip, porch door, 

the row between chorus girls 

the space between trees and stars.


IV. Quotidian Knowing

where your sneakers wear out, 

your Sunday afternoon self, 

milk to cereal ratio: 

            this is how I will treat the symptoms, 

            measured in slotted spoons.


V. A Stranger

            Once, when this almost happened, 

like the pied noir awaiting his execution, 

            I felt ready to live it all again. 


VI. Tragic Marginalia

When will you slip to the periphery, 

surrender to an endnote? How will I survive 

the scatter of cells, syllables? How will I survive 

            this dispersion, 

            the soul’s diaspora?


VII. New Ontology

I believe in 

            concrete geometry 

            over destructive mythologies:

the intersection of two lines, not on a flat graph, 

            but rather a sphere, fated to meet each year:

            two points of contact, numerically distinct, 

            equidistant and infinite collision. 


The earth is good for this. 

Alison Lubar (formerly Myers) teaches high school English by day and yoga by night. She lives in New Jersey, with a bad dog and an overgrown garden. Her work has been published by SWWIM Every Day, trampset, The Esthetic
Apostle, Lady Blue Literary Arts Journal, Cathexis Northwest Press, and in great weather for MEDIA’s most recent anthology, Suitcase of Chrysanthemums; she also has a piece forthcoming in Glassworks. Follow her on Twitter @theoriginalison