Megan Porter Poetry

a lifetime dodging chains and crumbling chairs—

with you

I would have sat there

Open, like a Pandora’s Box

Radiant, like a dying star

You know where you are

The Five of Cups,

a figure cries.

Three cups have spilled;

winning dies.

If I have to

mostly lose,

spilling all

is what I choose.

Your En Passant has exposed you now

(sentimental weakness on your part)

to rather material disadvantage.

My Queen, Lady Macbeth burning a fire in her heart, has bested your King.

Remnants stranded long after the end like

the Colosseum, the Acropolis—it’s pleasant to bask in the rays of a former glory.

Too contrary to find light in a common hue,

days pass into ages that slip from my prime,

nihil sub sole novum:

can a dead language lessen the dread of this truth?