Two Sonnets
by Justin Lacour
Sonnet (In my mind)
I can take your obsession with
Egon Schiele and hard seltzer,
what I can’t take is the way you disappear
in the middle of a conversation.
Think of my heart, this great cocoon,
full of thoughts that live but a second.
You’re watching the snow fall,
ten thousand miles away.
Your hands are warm and
throwing shadows before the fire.
Your face speaks the language of flowers.
(You deserve an explanation)
I mean you’re fearless against the weather
and your spectacle never sleeps.
Sonnet (palookaville)
Over the interstate by the water tank,
there’s a billboard of a personal injury
attorney and his dog. The dog is
wearing a shirt and tie--like it’s a lawyer too!
Okay. I just wanted to let you know
this is a thing, though not a thing
we do, which I guess is the point.
I want us to have a code, like daffodils
have a code, like silk moths have a code.
Here comes the night, nervous as my
fingers on your waist. Porch lights flicker
and music trembles in from the alley.
Sometimes, a slow song comes on
and I think, fucking A!, as if you were here.
Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. His poetry has appeared in New Orleans Review (Web Features), Feral, Parhelion, B O D Y, and other journals.
