Claire Roggeman Poetry

My blue avenue Smells the slender evening wind Like a wild bouquet

I detest the moth. The butterfly’s ugly stepsister Harassing my lampshade  with an unmistakable Thwap-thwap-thwap But why (to address the moth directly), Do you choose my nightstand as your Temple of Apollo? Every night I witness the epic pilgrimage to your fifteen watts of salvation Your tiny, furry head knows That the back of my hand Never fails to whisk you away Into nocturnal oblivion I dream that the moth escapes the confines of my room And reaches the divine sun with a mighty THWAP But tonight I’ll turn off my lamp, And dream the same for myself.

Talking The voice with the most to say A melody you can’t keep from humming The filter that distorts developed declarations Into sloughs of stuttering syllables The voice you wish you’d hear less often. Singing The voice closest to God. A harmony perched at the top of the staff The air in your empty skull mixes With the passionate affair of your vocal chords You hoist yourself to divine status Standing on the tiptoes of a single note. Thinking The voice that never needs to take a breath. A baseline written in a subconscious clef Synapses create utopias Aspirations and apprehensions Debate before the most exclusive of audiences Loud, raw, judgemental, unrelenting, You.