Vincent Frontero
Ariadne's Birthday Morning
Last night, I dreamt of the pleasure of inundation
as I plunged into the ocean swells.
It was July and I was happy
to feel the rush of plentitude
across my back.
Now, a fog slips by
when you force yourself
to stay awake.
It’s easier to complain than to remember
the stranger’s heels
echoing against the labyrinth’s walls.
Instead, listen
to the way the river wraps its arms
around your waist.
In a second life you were more adroit.
A tree whispered the perfect eulogy to your ear.
If only you hadn’t been born like this.
If only it had been you handing me the string.
Yelling “pull” until my face
turned bright as the moon.
Chiaroscuro
A well-known apparition; seasoned desire
buried next to geranium song.
I am more attuned but less knowledgeable.
My existence seems incongruent,
almost impossible.
You will never be who you know
you have always been.
In the night air,
there’s this long-awaited possibility.
I’m left to find solace
in my different set of skin,
in the tapered, soft dresses
I’ve only ever dreamed of.
Then, the morning, so excruciatingly present
reveals the combustible boy—left to hang
above his crudely made fire.
Vincent Frontero (he/him) is an Assistant Professor of English at the University of South Carolina—Sumter. His poems and translations can be found in The Cincinnati Review The Georgia Review, Los Angeles Review, The McNeese Review, and elsewhere. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from West Virginia University. website