Evan Elsass

A Small Act of Devotion

Spoons disappear from the kitchen
and bend behind bedroom and bathroom
doors; watches and rings walk

themselves to pawnshops, obsession pokes
out the eyes of pigeons, arms— vases
pierced by hypodermic stems, and tormented flowers.

It is 2 AM and the only light
is a bright orange blister that burns
in the living room. An omen in the inebriated dark

A lit cigarette hangs in my brother’s mouth
like a child from a tree. I am the mother
who says, do not fall.

He is neither asleep nor awake. His head, a skiff
that rocks in a sea of coagulated tar, his slouched
limbs, splintered oars. I sit beside him

the moon anoints his face, he is holy.
In his right hand, a mug full of ash
droops from one limp curled finger, a worm

that inches out of a dead fish’s jaw. The cup falls
against the floor and shatters. It does not wake him.
But each time I try to put out his cigarette, he jolts to life

and reassures me he’s not fucking sleeping.
So I sit beside him, catching the tragic
spark before it falls. This small act

of devotion, all I have. I can not save him
but I can keep this house from catching fire.

 
 

Evan Elsass is a poet from Columbus, Ohio. He presently lives in Long Beach, California, where he is working towards completing a bachelor’s degree in English and Creative Writing at California State University, Long Beach.

Thank you for reading Volume 1, Number 9