Pareidolia by Eve Boyle


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Pareidolia

I look for gods and monsters in the clouds,
while on the ground
and when I fly through them.
I spend the descent to New Orleans
in the company of Hercules, whose
thorned crown grows to cover his
eyes when we pass by,
blind to Venus inching closer, parting her thighs.

            When I arrive, I scan the lobby
            like I always do. I look for you,
            my god, my monster.

In St. Louis, wispy nebulas wrapped around the Arch,
sticky vapor palms hesitated
at the hotel window.
I begged you to press me into the glass,
to graze my scalp with your teeth.
One by one, you lifted
your fingers from
my hips, then asked me to leave.
Bacchus—bloated, satisfied—laughs when the door slams behind me.

            You don’t come on Wednesday.
            You’re not here on Thursday.

I tried to be more careful in Chicago,
but somehow agree to dinner.
On the way to the restaurant,
Diana broke into the skyline, rabbit limp between her teeth.
We talked about your wife. You let me try your wine.
Later, I replayed it all, under cold, scratchy sheets.
The hunting dogs come for me. I don’t bother to scream.

            You never make it to Louisiana.
            I find no clues in the clouds.
            You’re not here. Where do I look now?




Eve Boyle

Eve Boyle is a PhD student studying evolutionary anthropology at George Washington University. She minored in English at Boston University, and sometimes writes poems when she should be working on her dissertation. Twitter – @evekboyle