By Evan Tassin
All the eulogies for the horse.
All the slack and rambling.
All the more reason to fall.
On your knees
you could drain it down.
I won’t speak its name.
Black mold on the telephone pole.
Faire son deuil, to speak it plain.
In so many words, to put eyes on
the foul fruit inside of me.
I study a dead language
though I wish it were muscadine.
Grape wine from strong skin.
I give you an open palm
facing up, though it’s empty.
It had a weight to it when there
was something to grasp.
When waves crashing
whispered sleep, dreaming
with a warhead encore
hovering overhead
just high enough to go
unnoticed.
Evan Tassin (he/him) is a writer born and raised in Southeastern Louisiana. He currently calls Baton Rouge home. Evan received his B.A. in History from Louisiana State University. His work can be found in the Delta Literary Journal and The River.