Four Poems by Terrence Abrahams


Scorpio moon

The dark puts us out

of ourselves. Into each

opening we go filling.

This life an underground

lake. Not clean, but safe

to drink. A key distinction

to make. Remember:

reflection only exists until

light cannot go on.

So faced with myself,

I’d rather look at you.

thoughts on lately aspiring to beetles

lifting my body toward the sun

should be so iridescent

everyone I love is an animal

and vulture-hearted I am here knowing

the best way to preserve anything

is to leave it outside

amateur geology

There is no universally accepted definition of a mountain. So maybe I am one and maybe you are too. I’m saying this because I want to valley you, which means I want to be under you in all manners of landscaping. None of this is easy to explain. I read more on geography than I do on people. Abhorred by the way hands speed up the erosion process, I deign to touch as little as possible. However, I love to talk, and talk I do, mostly with my hands. Listen: if you want to sign up for rock-climbing, I know someone. If you want to visit a valley, I know someone, too. If you want to talk, I have capable hands. What I’m saying is we have no defined boundaries. You make your own. You move your own stones. Leave a little or take it all with you. What I’m saying is we too are growing at less than an inch per year thanks to an effort that is no effort at all.

Terrence Abrahams lives and writes quietly in Toronto. His work has been a part of Hobart, The Poetry Annals, Peach Mag, many gendered mothers, the Puritan, Witch Craft Mag, and ZEAL, among others. He tweets at @trabrahams.

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