TRILOGY by CHLOE WHEELER
November 27 2024I. desenllaç (denouement)
three olive flies fighting
for their trite, tiny fly lives,
struggling against the slick ice
cubes in a glass of crimson sangria.
affirmations: i attract abundance.
i attract change. i attract good health,
therefore i really hate the Marlboro pack
w/ the picture of a tongue tumor, which
is a bit much, like, what a way to go.
swollen suppurating pus tongue.
pulmonary embolism. performance art.
i’d rather go out like Gaudí—let glorious guts
splatter the tram tracks, then sleep forever
in the crypt of your unfinished masterpiece.
a death…
…like an eternal ellipsis.
II. marxant (leaving)
but is there any such thing as a peaceful departure?
at least the outbound Alsa bus is smooth.
outside, looms the Cementiri de Montjuïc—
modernist necropolis, elegant. articulate. beside
the scrupulously situated seaside metropolis
of Barcelona.
inside, backpack straps dangle from the overheads,
swaying nylon willow branches. cracked headrest tv’s.
we need tv’s. like, what are we going to do? for 6 hours,
it’s grape leaves. gnarled olive trees. erect cypresses
threatening to poke holes in the big, blue tapestry
of Spanish sky. feeling like Chris Isaak. feeling
like Van Gogh watching the sky unspool
into endless, sprawling viridescence.
III. final (end)
passing a wind farm. feeling less sentimental.
the turbines are also sharp things, they too
snag the sky. needlelike obelisks pinpricking
the heavens. i tilt my chin skywards.
i soak it in. like earlier today,
watching a flock of crazed pigeons
(vengeful Catalonian spirits)
devour a tourists sandwich, across the street
from the bubbling cornucopia of divine madness
that is La Sagrada Familia, or [now] whizzing
past tiny green soap bubble grapes of La Rioja,
swelling beneath the beaming, to be plucked
in August and fermented in French oak barrels.
Chloe Wheeler is a poet. Her work can be found in Expat, Hobart Pulp, Bullshit Lit, amongst others.