the enso

"The Space In Between" by marlowe

the poem

I keep waiting, the dogs
snoring at my knees, bent
around contours that don’t exist
in nature. We keep waiting
as though the punch line is coming
any second now, revealing
some deeper meaning we could not discern
otherwise on our own. Yes
this imposed pause is what gets
to us as everything else
passes, leaving me still, unmoved,
careful not to wake the dogs.
I keep waiting, enmeshed,
breaths timed to the rhythm
of a different animal, dancing
in the void between inhalations,
wondering what will happen next,
suspended, as though this script
had not been played before.

the enso

"Bringing the Outdoors In" by marlowe

the poem

We notice the single crocus
as it rises like a phoenix from her nest
of rotten leaves, snow, and dried roses
wilted like damask gowns. The wind
sings to us like a siren.

Pine needles, disturbed by the wind, bristle
like porcupine quills, and fallen leaves
tumble over the pavement, clapping
like the hooves of galloping horses.
And these holly berries cradled in my palm?
Drops of blood.

And this blood boiling in your veins?
Love. It isn’t what you make it,
love is. Your center, your core:
it is the hub of that wheel.

We walk to the center of the forest. Trees
point paths to the divine, above and below,
but these evergreens stand
as stiff as the Queen’s Guards.

This evening, the cappuccino froth will sit stiff,
as decadent as whipped cream,
in your spoon while peppermint nips
your tongue like frost. You will argue
that the corkscrew of this cinnamon roll
is a mortal coil.

We will be spoiled, coiled in layers.
Our stained glass ornament will glow like the North Star
while the Christmas tree lights shine like constellations.
And this wrapped present will be a universe
waiting to be discovered.