My Hephaestus

Brooklyn Copeland

Some years I am young growing younger. I taste cork grease in the strawberry soup; a ragwater reed in the tiramisu. I wake up deaf hearing whispers and in each dream the nurse cranking the audiometry box frowns but never asks if I'm getting over a cold. Life imitates art. I step from a bath and it is not all noir: when I pull on the robe the robe becomes wet and so does the rug and so does the parquet, and when I answer the door it is not Alain Delon but Orson Welles. Did you know he was born in Wisconsin? We drink wine. I taste cork. He graciously repeats the punch lines, chuckling each time, never frowning, never saying a quoi bon, nevermind. Some years I am new to the humor; some years I am late to the joke and who but a pockmarked god with a clock full of earmarked years would suffer my secondhand clarinet? Accompany me further out of tune? Mop my dreams and drain the tub? Praise my strawberry soup? Teach me tiramisu?

Brooklyn Copeland was born in Indianapolis in 1984. She has since been living in Florida and Northern Europe. Her poems have recently appeared, or will appear, in Burnside Review, Bleed Magazine, Cause and Effect, and online at Nthposition and Umbrella.She co-edits Taiga, a new poetry journal.