“Anax Junius,” by Aaron Baker

By

Anax Junius

You’re sweet. Forget me quickly, that falling and rising over a sea of baked chlorophyll,
swamp-gas filling our wings, our hearts of mud will sooner spark and flare out
their one time as given. I’ve little interest left in my body—leg clatter,
wing-splay, splatter of light when I love you. Broken down September,
light’s loose coins in the marsh grass… we have 12,000 eyes? Did you know that?
I did not know, come to this place, that languor had undone so many.
Cold wind, hot wind, this had everything to do with sex until it became about dying.

Aaron Baker


Original poetry published by The Rumpus. More from this author →