Sheila E. Murphy

Separation Envy

You ask me to give back
the aphrodisiac in favor of perfume.
I witness nothing spooned,
I hold the moon in high esteem.
I replicate cuisine I have been cured of needing.
Now is high time to redeem the skin
of being fed to linger past the seed.
Revocable bliss may sprout new selves
and bless the mood trapped within
day-glow happiness about to be bled young.
An overarching speech made sudden
splits into unequal code meant to divide
and alter late-term individuality
as though a serial indifference rose
to the plateau of jaundiced whole.


He mentioned having a life, perhaps the stillness of a manor where the people pay a little to lie down and pray the moon into completion. Or the integers she used to fray to make a living as she did. Or stars against the strong lean wooden beam we noticed more than watched. How is it he could sanctify by merely breathing. I had a father who could fuel the town with confidence. I had a mother who could warm. And any incident might be erased for our good and the good of all our neighbors if they watched. Or ever learned. A sequel to the shade we sought to reach, as if a culture of indifference might stand the test of tempo. Anymore, the faculty of memory subsides into indifference, and the soft swoon of a written text would blunt the seeming mood.

Overture, a lark, a seam, the sense of sight

Sheila E. Murphy's recent books include Reporting Live from You Know Where (Meritage, i.e. Press, and xPress(ed), 2018), As If to Tempt the Diatonic Marvel from the Ivory (Broken Sleep Books, 2018), and Underscore (Luna Bisonte Prods, with K.S. Ernst, 2018).
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