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