Emily

Guest poem by J.H. Wells

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A portrait Pollack painted,

drunk, blossoming ornate beauty.

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Gypsy eyes, wearing violet,

hiding, the nighttime thief,

from dawns  heart of

destitution.

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But I know so little of this design.

For we have not shared

passion’s ferocity

nor,

taken part in the restless feeling

in a dying conversation.

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So, who is to say

That our house will burn, or if

The lavenders will have a

divine scent?

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Join me,

drowning in some gin.

I’ll be by my typewriter, and you

lost in your violin.

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Until then,

love will have to starve.