The Weekly Croissant: Guest Hoes & Poetry

Poetry by Brooke Gross

Dear Croissants:

I am currently on maternity leave and will return to you shortly! In the meantime, please enjoy a series of guest authors, I know you will love ‘em!

Brooke Gross is an MFA student at Western Kentucky University, where she also works as an academic librarian. These pieces are from her debut poetry collection, Traitorous Muse, which is available on Amazon. Brooke also dabbles in fiction and creative nonfiction.

My Bartender is My Sponsor

I’ve been clean

for almost a decade

At least, that;s what he thinks

but burning liquid luck

was never my preferred drink

It’s the menace

in his jawline

that keeps me sober now

If he only knew his eyes

were enough to make me drown

He’s been stoned

since the day he met me

high on being wanted

but love couldn’t wake him up

so we both go home haunted

It’s the fever

in my musings

that keeps him standing still

pretends I’m not his weakness

wonders of whiskey and will

We were ruined

before we started

broken lonely addicts

I still cook with alcohol

He takes exposure tactics

Willow Wounds

I sat beneath a tree today

almost as sad as me

she hid it well

her scars were hell

but branches kept on swaying

the veil of leaves I slipped between

spoke low and soft and rough

they asked me why

do angels cry

when demons call them beloved

“it isn’t real,” I told the roots

no matter what they do

real love can leave

still hate can grieve

she sighed, “if only you knew”

I Know Better

Watch your step

in the haunted house

blood stains deeper

in a hollow heart

Hold your breath

on the ocean floor

black sand sparkles

but the offer’s cursed

Don’t move a muscle

under lover’s touch

teeth get sharper

with a lonely tongue

Don’t get lazy

in the demon’s dance

wicked words sing

to a racing pulse

But I’m too familiar

with the kisses of ghosts

to remember the sound

of shipwreck and loss

Would I Run to You?

in the field of forgotten flowers

I torched

when I found the poison

under your bed

my safe place

my soft place

my dandelion wishes

ablaze with red-hot fury

dead blooms left stiff

in your cold calculation

in the haunted house

I built for you

with bricks you’d made

pretty paint you’d mixed

in the field of ash

and flame-blue dandelions

weedy roots as strong as the floorboards

you cut deep enough

I can’t pull up

but at least you’re only a ghost

in the daydreams and nightmares

that say too much of impermanence

ramble with afterthoughts

what if

could have been

I know better

but subconscious is fickle

can’t control walking sleep

lost desire - unmet wishes

but what of the waking world

in the poems on paper

I wish I could shred

fuck you

my muse

reluctant yet unyielding

too beautifully broken

to give up

not mine to keep

feet sprint through sharp-tongued

papercuts anyway

Whatever Lyricism Is

A mountain of pages on the floor

A river of ink in my head

A guitar in my hand

Just wish I knew what it said

Roll your name over my tongue

to see how you taste

in a love song

to see if you deserve my good grace

There’s an army outside

but a lock on the door

There’s a secret I’m hiding

about the night before

I burned all your pictures

built a house of charred matches

I put up a smoke screen

to watch you sift through the ashes

A little girl in the corner

A teddy bear in the rain

A rescue party coming in

if she could remember his name

If her innocence was spared

maybe the pain would be gone

but they’ll reopen the wounds

to hear a whisper of her song