two poems

by Elizabeth Sunflower


They’re letting the lights go out
one bulb at a time
in five chandeliers,
none of them matching,
in the old bar
by the abandoned train tracks.

Five of a hundred panes
in the leaded glass windows
are replaced with wood
and one of the mermaids, shattered,
is a tin circle now.

The panels of drop ceiling bow
and it would be romantic to say
the arched mahogany bar itself
holds the whole thing up. But
when that metal armature goes it’s all over.

The bartender knows it.
The man playing the guitar,
the woman singing along know it.
And the only person who won’t admit it
if pressed is you.

You’re wearing your optimism hard today
and there’s nothing that can’t be.


Her Comings and Goings

“As in childhood we live sweeping close to the sky”*

and now, what fluorescent dawn is this beneath ceiling fans and factory windows. There’s a purple vine that climbs the gutter and stops. The bear in his bear suit notices only the walls are higher and the coffee pot empty. There’s money for laundry and cigarettes, she says. She is not just the gust of newspapers and bookbags today. She glint-eyes past him, perfuming his madness with breath of twice-worn underwear. He’s not certain there are balloons enough to carry him from the roof of this building and this ache of her comings and goings. Don’t forget the meat in the freezer, she says. He inhales- fills his mouth with the shape of her name, the damp music of her voice, enough wind to blow the vast rooms of her away.

* Carson, Anne, Autobiography of Red

Elizabeth Sunflower is a poet, teacher, wife, mother, and rock collector living in Philadelphia.

Artwork by: Sandro Aliano

Born in 1976, passionate about astronomy, Sandro approached portraiture, conceptual, dreamy photography, thanks to the encouragement of people close to him who evidently saw a hidden talent. He studies with old school photographers, and continually gets involved in international competitions, with excellent results.

Instagram: @littlebearph