Meagan Chandler

Necropolis

I tried turning back.
But I am scared
circling wings will confuse. 

The sky of the fresco:
much brighter,
much bluer than ours. 

We call this place a city,
but it can only be a city
if they know about each other. 

If a boy picks yellow poppies
and waves to another drinking
from the stream with cupped hands. 

If each afternoon she traverses
hilltop gardens. Whatever afternoon
means to her now. Whatever the weeds 

mean to her now. I hope she’s not mad
we carved nothing to tame them with.
Don’t give me that look again. 

Listen, can you hear the bowls clatter?
Dressing wine for a feast! You know
she never did anything quietly.

Please—say it’s not just me.

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Meagan Chandler holds a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from Baldwin Wallace University. She currently attends the Poetry MFA program at Bowling Green University. Her works have been published or are forthcoming in Door is a Jar, Inscape, Strange Horizons, The Ekphrastic Review and Allium: A Journal of Poetry & Prose.