Chloe Honum


Alone, which has grown to mean without you,


     I sweat in our old bed. In the bay, the storm’s orchestra tunes.


Thunder, and my next expression is one of yours.


     As if in need of something lost, wind tears


through the garden. It checks all my blooms. Rain


     falls in curtains from the roof of the porch, a thin


gap where arms could part them, hems of clattering hail.


     Foghorns tunnel through salty haze, the full-


of-vapor sound of a vanished horizon, roaming and slow.


     Like a conductor’s elbows, the wings of a crow


rise tip to tip and hover in the naked readiness that spreads


     from the sea, through swirling reeds, to the bed


where I ache and roll. The lilac light falls suddenly dim.


     Blinking through sweat, I imagine: you’ve just left and will come


back for me soon, a bouquet of ice in your arms.



“Fever” first appeared in The Paris Review, No. 192, Spring 2010, and is from The Tulip-Flame (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2014).