by Darius Stewart
approaches like fingers finessing keys
of a baby grand
inside a pit of grief. Music,
a tragedy waging against the body—
like dahlias unfolding petals
in search of light
but failing to enter into that brightness.
So the body wounds. The heart
orders no affection for familiar kindness
as if this is the way to make sense
of the strangeness that is
the world, as if the world is the climax
and the orchestra enters
a fraction behind the beat.
Darius Stewart was born in Knoxville, TN, in 1979. He holds degrees from The University of Tennessee and the Michener Center for Writers (a B.A. and an M.F.A., respectively). He has been previously anthologized in two volumes of The Southern Poetry Anthology series, The Best Gay Poetry 2008. He’s been published elsewhere in Callaloo, The Seattle Review, Meridian, and dozens of other journals. He has authored three chapbooks: The Terribly Beautiful (2006), Sotto Voce (2008) and The Ghost the Night Becomes (2014). He bartends for a living because it makes more money than teaching, and lives with two dogs: Fry (his) and Waffles (his housemate’s, who doesn’t think he’s an artist, but he is).