Chad Foret
The Last Moon
A cortege of straws, I’m all these
amanuenses shooting mountains
from my office. I have freedom
oozing from my eyes, including
patriotic socks, sugar crying
in the cone. Follow me
to fermentation, the poly-
phenic reek of chicken
shit. For the masquerade,
I swore by the bone spur,
fashionably sick in the face.
I’m often apostolic, palms
soaked in coin stink, skipping
ears on the Nahal Og, Malchus
half inside the speed. Prayer is
a potluck, but we brought the cold.
I saw the pastor feed the flies in his
sleeve. Even the fish bring flowers,
yes, even the weather is listening.
Chad Foret is a PhD candidate in poetry, a teacher, and an editor of Arete at the University of Southern Mississippi. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2018, MAYDAY, Spoon River Poetry Review, and other journals and anthologies.