by Maja Lukic
The building sleeps
soaked in un-remembered dreams,
blue density outside,
plastic horizons, heavy on urban mirrors,
garbage trucks cough & swallow,
lurch in locked patterns.
I could be sitting in a plane high above the tarmac
or here blinking at the ceiling—
the dignity of 4 a.m. insomnia.
Revelations in coffee sediment,
the special method of today.
I lost a history—it’s lost—
why think of it?
Places I left behind—blots on a past—
why record them?
Readers of Turkish coffee grounds
know the future has no forgiveness—
only a wash of sterile sun
& directions chancy—
some loose egg white strands of saxophone notes
or an accordion straining in a Balkan summer,
Maja Lukic’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Prelude, Salamander, New South, The South Carolina Review, Canary, Posit, DIALOGIST, and other journals. Links to selected pieces published online are available at majalukic.com, and she can be found on Twitter at @majalukic113. She lives in New York City.