‘Elegy For the Last Spring On Earth’ & Other Works
Elizabeth Agre ran far away from city life and into the north woods of Minnesota. She took her husband and the dog with her. She writes, paints, and takes pictures.
Elegy For the Last Spring On Earth
It's that time of year again,
The oak tree pods peel open,
To stain the—I can't do this.
I can't look you in the eye and lie
About the hyaline streaks of pollen.
I have never in my life been allergic.
Even as a child, I took Claritin tablets
Not for allergies but for a deviated septum.
Something deep inside my skull
Was wrong, and I didn't know it,
Except I did. We have all felt it, haven't we?
The subtle twitch before you sneeze
Only for the sneeze to never come,
Gooseflesh rising on your arms
Your body trying to speak to you in braille.
Some of you are grinding your teeth,
Clenching your jaw, your fist, your stomach,
Maybe you're just impatient for the poem to end,
Or maybe you feel it too: something is wrong.
Snow in Florida. Hurricanes in Australia.
Wildfires in Japan. Halcyon spring in January.
A feeling of helplessness, internalized,
Until there's no room left in our sinuses.
I can't look you in the eye and lie:
Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.
I love when you wear lipstick—
It is not that your lips are lacking,
Any more than the azalea waiting
Patiently to open its petals to spring,
Is anything less than pure sex
In that tight, emerald dress.
No, I am obsessed with the idea
Of you leaving a flower on my skin,
And if you want to make it last
All week long, I will be on my knees
In the garden beneath your chin.
Mundane Is Latin For "World"
And everything in it:
The undescribed sunset
At the end of every poem,
Thursday garbage pick-up day,
Recycling becoming mainstream.
Falling in love with a stranger.
Every comic book and movie ever written,
And the child who reads them in the dark,
And the young man who daydreams
About a fantastical world in an office cubicle.
A watercolor painting behind his eyes.
Packs of gum in the checkout line.
Coffee in the morning. Decaf at night.
New job smell. Old car love.
A case of recycled beer bottles,
The sand, a thousand miles away,
Transmuted into emeralds
To hold a single night
Of drinking with friends,
Their laughter, like condensation,
Like the hangover you know will come
When your throbbing head rests
On the cold side of your pillow.
The unseen sunrise
At the end of sleeping in,
And everything in it.
CS Crowe is three crows in a trench coat that gained sentience after eating a magic bean. He spends his days writing stories on a stolen laptop and trading human teeth for peanuts. A poet and storyteller from the Southeastern United States, he believes stories and poems are about the journey, not the destination, and he loves those stories that wander in the wilderness for forty years before finding their way to the promised land.
