Anatomy of a Palm Tree, or Coastal Premonition Before my Last Day
I am pretty good at breathing.
Gulls cast shadows across sand—
a buzz in the background
cannot be made out.
In the dream he is at the podium.
We shared air briefly.
Terminal inflorescence
they named the flowers.
My toenails the color
of a swimming pool floor.
The wind makes a thick sound
in the fronds, pelicans
form themselves like a Thunderbird
airshow, stiff wings &
quick turns; mourning
doves make a song no one
cares about all fucking day.
Old leaf is what they call
the dangling ones.
In the dream at the podium
he says I am pretty good
but he will be better.
Pinball
Shiny moon against dark blue
is a pinball
machine quarter
halfway in the slot. Ding-ding-ding
is the sound dreams make
banging their heads
against a bell. Some say
self-help vigilance guarantees against aging
disgracefully, but there is evidence
to the contrary.
Flat pillows after all
make flat dreams. White noise drowns
out children but not parents, whose voices
are trapped
inside you.
The sounds coming out of my mouth
originated in the belly of my mother.
We release
them like a
shot that’s been slung, like a shiny ball.
Jessica Farquhar is the author of Dear Motorcycle Enthusiast, published by The Magnificent Field in 2020. Her collection Good Job is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. You can also find her work in Sarabande’s Once a City Said: A Louisville Poets Anthology, and You Blew It: A Miracle Monocle Micro-anthology. She is the recipient of grants from the Kentucky Foundation for Women and a recent KFW Artist in Residence at Loretto Motherhouse.
