Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

John McCullough

SPELL

SPELL

SPELL

This is the hour everything
on the street squeezes into itself,
when walls or a ladder
are on the cusp
before waves sweep in
or the new regime starts.
The one with the trees in charge.

When sun is thrown on a wet road
and you find yourself nodding,
feel your barren mouth opening
for the coins of light,
the lampposts’ orange moons
bursting Volvo bonnets.

Leaves are smaller gods now.
And the woman opposite
leaning over a cup
will some day come to own
all she might crave.

Except the field mouse of course,
the one from her dream,
its eager head twisting
through the hedge like yes.
Close

SPELL

This is the hour everything
on the street squeezes into itself,
when walls or a ladder
are on the cusp
before waves sweep in
or the new regime starts.
The one with the trees in charge.

When sun is thrown on a wet road
and you find yourself nodding,
feel your barren mouth opening
for the coins of light,
the lampposts’ orange moons
bursting Volvo bonnets.

Leaves are smaller gods now.
And the woman opposite
leaning over a cup
will some day come to own
all she might crave.

Except the field mouse of course,
the one from her dream,
its eager head twisting
through the hedge like yes.

SPELL

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Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
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J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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