• Lammergeier Staff

Aubade for a Motherfucker | Madison Charbonneau

Updated: Mar 14, 2019



What part of you would I recognize

years from now, across a table

Had we seen each other on a wall

years ago, a clutch pitched into a hole

and buried like a kill saved for winter.

Forget it.  It has no place here.

Shroud it, cross it out, unname it.

It couldn't be the curve of a face that

I remember.  Time changes that.

Not clothes or a mouth or the crease

at your eyes, the botched attempt at

smiling on cue.  There is something more

you than you are, something sewn between

your ribs, something deeper than a soul --

some moment I would remember.  Two hands

across a table to hold.  The way your

laugh claims your body as its own.  Not

the exhale of breath but the taking in of it.





Madison Charbonneau is a poet and graduate of the University of Massachusetts Amherst. She currently works full time in mental health and addiction recovery services, reads tarot, and spends a lot of time thinking about what the moon is up to.  Most recently, her work has been featured in Lemon Yellow Press.


Twitter: @lez_lemon

Instagram: @mcharbon

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