Matt Broaddus

Acanthus leaves fall out of my mouth when I speak. A lonely column doesn’t stay that way for long. Other faces and conversations lap against my fluted personhood on the beach of another evening. The sky opens, and the mysteries of the universe stay cryptic in starlit calligraphy. I’m thinking of narwhals. A friend says I operate at a three out of ten at all times. My head is heavy lugging around this capital while I look for an anchor. Your face always keeps me upright. My head full of stalks and scrolls, volutes curling. If I plant myself steadfast in the earth, I know the world will stop spinning. And somewhere a symphony of narwhals breaches, their tusks saluting sky and sea.

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