September 11, 2017 | Occasus | Issue 7 | Poetry

3 Poems by Kaela Morin

Calligraphy

The water grass cleaves the black bay
into pieces.
Yellow, a violent green, dead brown—
this bright stroke of prose is
paint wielded like a weapon.
 
But what is written there
to the plains of blue air
and the ripping wind
that molds the water?

Ode to Love

Love, you have fine taste. For you

I’ll give it freely—you needn’t ask
for this shuddering muscled sack, its chambers.
Lead! If you’re up to task
I’ll follow, though the way is strange
 
and your demands stranger still: a
slick intellect, locked in a bowl;
cords strung like a siren, now like a bell;
red plasmic iron, pipes unrolled;
 
these scuttling bones—hands. (Why hands?)
I’ll give them gladly, you needn’t ask
(I suppose) for I stand
up to task,
 
lead and I’ll follow,
trading parts for pleasures:
slivered bone, its marrow,
on a silver scale you measure
 
the weight of your prizes,
like a church plate of bribes
 
to pay my way through
—yes, you’ll keep me subdued,
 
plundered, strapped tight.
Love? Yeah, right.

Fling

On this cool
bright day
in lavish October,
this crackling, manic
morning,
my dear, I wish
 
the goddamn
bus driver would
slow the hell down
 
because I can barely see
the bleeding fall,
those arching, haggard trees
run past,
 
their vibrancy
tamed to a red blur
stripped from the
simple chaos
of life lost
in a glint
and a rush,
 
made into
an afterthought
uncaught
 
because

too late--

  we’ve passed it.

KAELA MORIN is going into her fourth year of her Honours Specialization in English Language and Literature and Minor in Writing.