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The Elephants

Three Poems

Meg Hurtado


Magnolia boughs wobble,
nervous, dependent,
too tall for a storm.

I, unmatched at last,

go ahead and blister,
digging for music.

There’s always an ambulance
wailing ruby counterpoint,
and my fire escape is just a gesture.

The magnolia won’t grow alone
long enough, won’t live
broad and wild,

will never tether in her arms

that car pulling up, its windows spilling
all the words to “Summer Wind”,

which takes

It is five o’clock
The red
breeze leaves.


New train,
plain raiment

now more visible,
now less,

reduced to
radio halo.

This is bigger,
this keeps.

Caucus of stars
laid out, neat.

Agony City,

Every color
said it best:

stray Beloved,
look here.


Always been a little weird.
I need all the help I can get. I bet you knew.
Put some excitement in. Just scrub
it in. Get lighter and lighter.
Let me clean off the old knife.

Just make some decisions.
I won’t do anything I don’t tell
you about. All we’re looking for
is a little stain. Shoot, maybe
there’s even a little projection.

Just blend it all together,
only because it seems to have
a little more hair in it.
Not just a flat old dead sky.
Lots of nice things going on.

You can make all those little things.
You get addicted to them.
Probably this won’t show up.
You know me – I like to have
these big crashing waves.

Maybe in our world, our wave
is gonna live. Just flashing down
like that, whatever. That color
remains there. Maybe it comes
right on back. Fatal blue.

Meg Hurtado Bloom is a poet, editor, and copywriter from San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Split Lip Magazine, Lumen Magazine, The Volta, Hidden City Quarterly, and a few other places. She recently co-founded Hologram Press.

This originally appeared on June 14, 2017