Adam Fieled

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Adam Fieled

Cheltenham Elegy #420

I. The Junior Prom deposited me (and fifteen others) on the floor of her basement. I could barely see daylight at the time, and at three in the morning I began to prowl. I was too scared to turn on any lights. She emerged like a mermaid from seaweed. I needed comfort, she enjoyed my need. We had gone out— she was bitter. The whole dialogue happened in shadows. No one was hooking up in the other room, either. You spiteful little princess. II. Whether off the bathroom counter or the back of your hand, darling, your unusual vehemence that winter night, cob-webbed by half-real figures, was animated by an

Adam Fieled

Cheltenham Elegy #524

When he drives around Elkins Park in the dead of night, he thinks, this is how I like the human race— asleep. When three roads fork at Myers, he goes down Mill Road. By the time the car climbs Harrison Ave, he has the thought that the sleeping human race is the holy one. He pushes past the old derelict high school on High School Rd, wonders if its still haunted. It flashes on him: the day he broke in, smack in the middle of the Nineties, with buddies now long dead. He found a hammer, stole it, never used it— it sat in his closet until after graduation. He was smashed then, too.

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Winter Apps #1307

She hovers above planet Earth, making strategies for safe landings, but not able to see that she is also on planet Earth, watched like a crazed cat, a maze- rat, or a tied-up mime, I cannot save someone so high up or far down, it’s like a black thread about to snap, as it strains past breaking point she reaches for champagne, to celebrate– bubbles lunge up to break.

Winter Apps #1488

liquor store, linoleum floor, wine she chose was always deep red, dark, bitter aftertaste, unlike her bare torso, which has in it all that ever was of drunkenness— to miss someone terribly, to both still be in love, as she severs things because she thinks she must— exquisite torture, it’s a different bare torso, (my own) that’s incarnadine—

Apparition #562

I see you foraging through weeds in a field; it’s spring, air streaked green. I’m with you in the field: I’m mud, or grass, I’m beneath your nails, held fast. Bark flakes off me. You pass on, satisfied. Branches sway, flecked by tongues— look at my garden’s sprawl; do you see me here, or in the air?

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