Only Aria

The night he died
I dreamed of Baroque cathedrals,
a heaven within
and outside the universe, infinite and appalling,
as if all we contained was not meant for a heaven,
even if the bedding is nice.

Forgive me,
I didn’t know how not to be an enigma
prowling about the house like a cat/burglar,
nibbling at the edge of love
or what I thought was love
or whatever could be expended—

we tend to do that, orphans.

With all my heart
may the veil be good to you,
that there is opera, and Marcilliat,
and fountains of all good things
denied;

I hope you will know me now.
It’s a selfish kind of grief, but believe me
it is worse than death
to have only been known at one’s worst.

The night you died, I dreamed of
revivals—the baptist kind—dead set on survival

—well, a vaudevillian kind of faith is mine.

I pray the best of this life
is your after,
that somewhere beyond the veil
you will know me:

pale as Rococo
but twice as grand.

 

 

 

 

EmilyLinstromAuthorPortraitEmily Linstrom is a NYC-based artist currently adventuring on the Pacific coast. Her work has been featured by/in Three Rooms Press, Nailed Magazine, Rogue Agent, Prick of the Spindle, Flapperhouse, Homestead Review, and Yes, Poetry. She was the first prize recipient of Pulp Literature Press’s 2015 short-story contest. Upcoming publications include Literary Orphans and Goblin Fruit.

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