Margo Roby Poems

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Then, Get Yourself a Julep

On sultry days,

say the word aloud:

 

magnowlyas
Stretch the vowels.

Round your lips.

Feel the sexy.
Curl your tongue around the sounds:

 

nowel-yah


slow, warm, luxurious,

like saying

un-du-late

in a dark room,

 

like swans come to rest

— creamy and voluptuous –

magnowlya blossoms.

 

 

All That’s Left

 

My grandparents’ T-bird is pulled over
on the dirt shoulder. A metal guardrail
and wooden posts distinguish the lay-by
from the hill sloping down on the right.
The road barely breaks the slope, shifting

and winding with the hillside’s curves.
Long shadows lie across the bottom
third of the car and darken the hill
ahead, reflecting the sun’s early
descent on a wintry afternoon. Snow

lingers but most has melted, gone,
as transitory as the car pulled
over for a moment to record the scene
and hold onto it, when everything
in the picture has long disappeared.

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