I sing September brokenhearted. It’s not
that I was in love. I forgot about love.
I was in hope (for the longest time). I hoped
that the sky would crumble chrysanthemums
into my hands. I would take each piece of emerald,
make them into a crown of teeth to rest
upon and devour my head. I built a scepter
of paper and took it in hand. I waved it
starboard, shaking silver out of shivers. I hoped
that I could mend the growing sounds of failure.
I built my bible. Encrusted it, set it aflame.
I used to hope for love. But that was oh so
long ago. Now I hope for treasure. I gave/
bought into pleasure, gilded my name.
Peter is a third-year PhD student in and Graduate Assistant Coordinator of Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He holds a B.A. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a M.F.A. in Poetry from The New School University, and a M.A. in Polish Literature from Columbia University.