Alexis Quinlan



 He also who had received the one talent came forward . . . Matt. 25:24-27

But what exactly is a talent?
This is one of the great questions.
And I was only given one
by that man who’d been so wrought
iron, who had so many of them
whatever they are.

Normal was the day, damp and warm.
I drove out to the old subdivision,
found the quiet spot
behind the garage
where the rock rose used to bloom.
I didn’t want to be found out.
It had been very bad before.

The earth smelled like mudpies
like childhood
when the street was young
construction constant.

I’d brought a spoon.
I began digging.




 A lot of life is fab if you don’t think
too hard about what’s hissing
beneath the ceremony, ornate
confirmation into the church of it
foreign bishop arrived
fine gold hat, oily chaos
seeping no matter                  no physics
what to bow to here
glitter of low light.
How to keep from being bowed, more like.
Normally, wrote Freud, respect for reality
gains the day. (He never met my people.)
In a real sonnet, a final couplet sings sense.
Sealed with spirit, they say.
Like we had options.