Marigo Farr

Post Election, 2016: A Comrade Hosts Me
                                             Balton Street, Buffalo

This is the third time we’ve met and
you’re still polite.

Take my room, you insist.
The bed is soft.

Old oaks scratch your windows
in night’s first wind.
I’m still standing near the door
with my bags.

Have you been taking care?
I ask.

You smile, run your fingers through your hair.
Big eyes, for a moment, down.

Ya know, it’s been a hard year.
Take my room, you insist.
The bed is soft.

Cold whistles outside.
The furnace roars and
throats say only shy things.

Narrow steps creak.
I find the attic room
whitewashed wood in perfect
glow from the bedside lamp.
There is a window to the moon
and it is warm.

I think of you,
tossing and turning on
the cold leather couch.

But dry heat makes throats
say shy things.

Come with me,
they don’t say.
We can’t sleep alone.

Marigo Farr has been writing poetry and songs for as long as she can remember. First inspirations include her mother’s string quartets playing in the livingroom and her family’s land in the Berkshires. Later on, the quirky and independent writing community in Burlington, VT, and queer writers in NYC. She loves reading and writing poetry about love, loss, dreams, gender, queerness, home, and the natural world.