Lake Linden by Mary Maroste After dinner, the aged red paint bubbles on the porch swell with humid air, & under the bed the carpet white & harsh, becomes half dead coral, becomes the steel my grandfather is frozen in. ** A grey mouse is building a nest out of insulation, at night her miniature claws echo across the ceiling— the lupine’s wilting on the counter trace fish onto the wallpaper in pollen & watch the fog trail thick cream over the lake— the lightening wanted to spread across the sky like an oak tree & stop disappearing— the wood of the house settles & moans, the only souls alive are full of longing. ** Maple sap—sweat along my hairline, yellow finch stiff under the kitchen window, a man on the 4th of July promising about a god outside of our own bodies & proving it by touching sparklers to his arms & starting grass fires.
Mary Maroste is a junior at Western Michigan University. She is majoring in Creative Writing and Communication Studies. She has been previously published in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, 3288 Review, Winter Tangerine, Sink Hollow, and Jabberwock. Her chapbook Blueprint for a Home Without Tampons is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press in 2017. She is from Houghton Michigan but currently resides and studies in Kalamazoo.