from by Andrew Branch

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You left a brushfire in my room:
pictures pushed deep down in dresser drawers,
along with other things of yours,
which here and there I still exhume.
For months I found your DNA
in silver stands of macramé,
until I learned to separate the interlocking knots.

Sweet adenine, your conjured codes coalesce in my dreams,
speaking of things the weary world of day has never seen,
till your hemlock-hands slip away from me.

I’ve heard the way you speak my name: sad and strange,
and my brain is filled with lidocaine,
and lately things don’t taste the same,
and my skin still feels like cellophane,
tepid to the touch.
Girl, it’s a fire, a fatal feud, between the two:
me and you in the womb of a telephone tomb,
and God knows I can’t sing that tune,
trapped in the fumes in a worn-out room,
watching the walls burn down.

Girl, you’re telling me things aren’t always exactly what they seem.
But babe, this time it’s true: you do exactly what it seems like you do.
Ain’t a soul I know’s believing you.


from Pangaea, released March 15, 2014



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Andrew Branch Auburn, Alabama

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