person Regis Louis Coustillac, two poems

Regis Louis Coustillac is poet living and writing in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has appeared in Brainchild Magazine. You may find him on Instagram @regis_coustillac

*-

If We Woke Without Our Names

They would call you dusk.
They would call you shadow
lengthened into mist.
They would call you fog on
the early road. They would call
me trillium. They would call you
creek bed filled with mud;
They would call me quartz,
lurking in the ripples.
They would call you lunar,
lover of reflected light.
They would call me constellation,
mangled story of stars.

If we woke without our names,
I would call you prism.
I would call you glass rainbow.
I would call you light that dances
along the spectrum of the living.
Kaleidoscope that turns with
the axis of the Earth. I would
call you opal, moonstone,
mosaic of memory and muscle.
I would run my hands on your skin
and call it paper lantern,
fragile beacon of the wind.

-*

If My Home Were An Album, Would You Listen?

Stamp Ohio into vinyl.
Set the needle on its hilly grooves
until music moves through the plains.
Let the record rust until the whole state
feels an itch beneath its dusty towns.
Spin, spin, skip, scratch.
Heroin in baby bottles.
That’s the title track,
the radio single to which the nation
will sing along.

Run the anthem back.
Let them sing Ohio, Ohio
until the needle snaps,
or they lull themselves to sleep.
They dream of corn.
They dream of rust.
They spin, spin, dream, scratch
against the dirty needle
that traces along Ohio
like a turntable.

There are other tracks
on the B side of this album.
Songs of rivers and soil
and the fertile crescent of the West,
and bicycles that flew like Icarus,
but the radio won’t play those,
because the country wants to spin
and skip and scratch the shared itch
that buried itself
beneath the nation’s skin
like the bodies
of the Hopewell people
that tucked themselves
beneath the Earth
in great mounds,
in the mouth of some serpent
that will swallow us all.

–**

 

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