Like swapping spit
earnestly, in the back
pew of a funeral, I once
regarded the life-instinct
as something wholly innocent,
or at least innocently derived.
Now I know the love object
in the spectacle of procreation
is a stranger, teasing open
the seventh seal of the anthropocene.
Tigers, bears, goldfish, werewolves,
enacting the rite of prey and predator:
feasting, naming, sighing, dying.
The real replaced by supplement;
the moon and sun, with les enfants
terrible, called up from the astral galaxy
as proximal gods. Dawn at Ceres;
March Equinox—this is the harvest
of sorrow, Amadeus, perogative
of the royal we, I obviated:
Virginia Konchan is the author of Vox Populi (Finishing Line Press) and a short story collection, Anatomical Gift (forthcoming, Noctuary Press). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The Believer, The New Republic, and Verse, her criticism in Boston Review, and her fiction in StoryQuarterly, Requited, and Joyland, among other places. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she lives in Montreal.