Brandon Dean Lamson

Seawall

If I could find you in the morning

I’d kneel on any balcony and listen

to vines stretching east,

their ivory bell flowers glistening in sunlight. 

 

 Last night at the cinema

you said something about the front row,

about images striking you directly before

they were diluted by a seawall of dark heads. 

 

 If I woke beside you I’d string

my Tibetan skull beads over your bare throat,

their teeth and eye sockets of yak bone

clicking above your breasts. 

 

 If we are always facing a screen,

a tapestry of green silk like water

may we break open continuously and spill

over it, sand called black beauty pouring from our mouths.

 

 

BRANDON DEAN LAMSON’s first book, Starship Tahiti, won the Juniper Prize for Poetry.  Many of the poems in the collection are based on his experiences teaching inmates on Rikers Island.  He is also the author of a chapbook entitled Houston Gothic (LaMunde Press, 2007) and his recent work has appeared in Brilliant Corners, NOINFINITE, and Buddhadharma Quarterly.  He teaches courses in writing and literature at the University of Houston’s Honors College.