Brookes Moody | Poetry

I say, there would be no folklore without Astral Weeks
and Louisa says dads everywhere would click on that—
still unwritten—article and send it to their daughters

as proof from another daughter, that Taylor Swift
is the saltwater taffy that strains the jaw as you eat,
as you decide if you even like waxy sugar. But mostly,

“exile” conjures Door County in September
when one sweater isn’t comfort enough after dark
and you need a little Mt. Gay in your cider to observe

the blueness of Vega shining at the top of Lyra
in the astral field. And who doesn’t need to scream
into waves at Cave Point as lake water touches

bottom, crests, and crashes loudly against the cliffs?
The music plays and even the branches come alive
in their seasonal decay—anthocyanin edging tree leaves

as you sip craft cocktails at Wickman House, floral
notes of Death’s Door gin like John Payne on flute
riding on top of the tune, smooth as goat milk soap.

Wasn’t the whole city of Milwaukee disappointed
when Bon Iver didn’t address the crowd ten years
after For Emma? Like Van at the Hollywood Bowl,

seeking protection from the loneliness of the crowd,
walking on as the band’s already playing, not speaking
but strumming? Wasn’t Orpheus himself pulled apart?