After the Sun, The Fall

Inside, black windows, outside,
the warm excesses of summer,
beloved, slough and squish
into frosted pulp.

Better to be blind
as his massive head bows,
white rot racing up his back.
He dies, facedown, towards

the bleak soil of seeded hope.
Pots on the porch, blues
and reds, round and square,
some scraped empty

heartbeats harvested, others
massed with scraggly thyme
and oregano who, without options
shiver through darkening months.

The three katsura sisters
have never agreed on the time,
or even if The Fall is fake news.
Each is caught publicly disrobing,

leaves tumbling over the weeks,
or through the long exhale of
misty breath, white droplets
lingering in deadly hover.


The Birth of the Dark

Doesn’t come with pink lungs
the hopeful inhale, the triumphant
scream of new life

The birth of the dark seeps, drips,
pretends to be sweat on your forehead
carelessly wiped

As you watch just another sunset,
the lights of the Ford dealership
promising dawn will come again

The birth of the dark sits
by his bedside, as he’s dying,
and forgets to hold his hand

leaving a pinprick, a black hole,
vacuuming like a Hoover
until all that matters is bagged

You bury it like the family dog
near the roses. Years later,
their thorny sticks bloom


Poetry helps Lois Brandt reach for versions of the truth that she has hidden from herself. She earned an MFA from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts and lives in the Seattle area.