Violet Hour

by Kris Falcon

Thyme shoots, dragon fruit sorbet,
the market not marked by season or place.
A spigot for pots of chai. Free sun golds.
No one will think to look here, a hobby
city with no knobs.
You are always seeing faces
on tenements with no numbers, in the simple-
knuckled branches where parking ends, where
you picture desires ripen. It’s makrut here,
you need to repeat. Your head down, your gut
warmed. Only the three graces are more still.
To mock or beckon, their marble scalds then
cools like neither. Tomorrow, you are to stir
in kaffir lime. You dunk your face in their fountain.
A mirage of a memory retains. When you docked,
myths quivered beneath their bones.
You have cradled the receiver long, through
the night. Each seaside is overcast. How you
scan obituaries like wanted ads yet
no one is paying for a face with your name.
What to be but etched on the square. Free,
and not all freedoms are for harming,
to heal. You feel ripe peppers, potatoes shaped
half a house or an ear. Inner stalls not caves.
Your chat with an herbalist on motion
sickness, a tattoo balm, takes you on deck,
the peak of a champagne pyramid.
A jilted love song sways your limbs
away from your heart. On the brink of rain,
flavors burn the air blue.

Kris Falcon holds an MFA at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She is the author of Alunsina’s Wrist. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Red Rock Review, SMEOP, Plainsongs Poetry, Crosswinds Poetry, Running with Water, arc{hive}, River Heron Review, and elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Gabrielle Lugbauer is a New Jersey-based artist. She attends Drew University, where she will graduate this May with a BA in Art and History. Her completed works include oil paintings on canvas and abstract digital art. For Gabrielle, her art captures moments, turning the temporary into the permanent.