Megan Peak

Out Of The Heart

Out of the heart freshly splitting,
red-clamped pipe, that quaternary thing,
out of the sixth-month fuckery
and into the night, I cringe, cunt-long and fixed
to the side of a building, a creature hold
around my neck. Down
the length of my spine, drumfire—
sequins falling like burst satellites to the snow.
Nearby, a tree slices itself in the wind.
There is a heart within
my heart.

Evening goes lovely dim—cold moon
gutted clean. I begin to tally the darkness, strange
sum that is bodily and significant.
The lake is iced up, swollen blue near
the shore. As I watch the frozen water,
I know loss is a halted season,
the sharp snow reaching out
for miles.

The heart of my heart
beats wildly. On the clean ice,
a small leaf may fall or
maybe just the wind.
 

The Room Below This Room

for Brenda Hillman

Before there is a room, there is
a half circle—orange and pulsing—
fierce corona of Calendula.
I think: to sit in the heart means I want
no broom, means I’ve room for wreckage.
I call for stairs and some unroll.
I think: if there is one door but
the things I could do with two.
On the way I step on keys
and birds of paradise. I reach
a door painted red and turn
the knob. Inside, my father’s books,
a chair immediately, a spire.
I think: I might see everything—
an anarchist, jellyfish as stars,
death. But what I need becomes
what I am: a line of women
with purple flags. I think: I’ve room
for love. They pour out the window.
I think: not a door but a window.

Megan Peak currently lives in Columbus, Ohio and is enrolled in The Ohio State University’s MFA program. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in A cappella Zoo, The Bakery, The Boiler Journal, Four Way Review, DIAGRAM, PANK, Pleiades, Stone Highway Review, and THRUSH Poetry Journal.