“Dungeon Fog”

By Emily Browne

Dungeon Fog

you can predict the severity of a winter

from the markings on a wooly caterpillar in fall

the thicker the more likely

cosmic mishap leaves earth in a petri-dish

growing soft white fungus

steeping sailors & ships

in the hope that they are going straight

in the direction of home

it’s not a formula

or not a formula for us

who are so intent on perfection

the shipwrecks collected in vials

will tell the story of how we took to the ocean

& turned around once we ran out of food

wherever we landed we said

we were staying forever

in the petri-dish we are a mist of dream bodies

traversing apocalypse

running on empty

in the waters of original conception

eroding in real time

this is the age of mirrors

first we painted the moon into a cage

thinking if we could control the moon

we could control ourselves

then we painted ourselves into this storm

& our fate took the shape of its container

all signs point to being stained here

with slim to no visibility

candy-wrappers popping into view

as suddenly as rocks

both with a kill wish

we listen for water hitting anything

& decide to call the darkness magic

we hold our breath

for spring & pray it ends well

this is the message

etched into the hull

someday we may find the thing we need

it will smell of peace

an angel’s share

with forget-me-not in hand

my ankle will crack every step I take

to the room where you sleep

warning you of my approach

you will mistake me for cicadas in heat

not the male chorus but the quieter

sound of females flicking their wings

Emily Browne is a poet in the M.F.A. program and an adjunct lecturer in the English Department at Brooklyn College. In her writing, she delves into the emotions revolving around death, grief, and spirituality through Californian landscapes and biota.