I am the worms in the yellow walls of the Concord house caused by the shit-leaking upstairs toilet. I am the molding water spot we both saw but would not ever speak of. I am the side yard weeds I said we’d pull. You are the retaining wall, crumbling, that we can’t afford to fix just yet. Just yet. I am the broken tooth becoming abscessed. I am the dishes left, resentfully, unscrubbed. I am…
Curled up in the cup of a slingshot – bands taught – which giant will I fell? note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.
We got the call and went to visit mem. No vigil. Just a business transaction. Numbers, at least, we could try to comprehend. She spoke of insurance, rings, inheritance. Bryson got pep’s final slice of cherry pie. Walter got the fresh-pressed suits and ties. The funeral was a complete fucking lie. Father spoke of the glory of Jesus Christ. He’d never known the glory of Gene Lemay, Who only went on Sunday to keep mem…
That fall morning we moved to Concord the neighbor made a V with his fingers and wriggled his arm like a charmed snake. High school ASL class failed us so he wrote on a legal pad: VINES. He mimed the digging and ripping I didn’t plan on doing, and pointed to the hydrangeas lining his side of the ruins. I recognized the next sign: Two hands around his throat. But yard work, as is wrote,…
for me writing poems is vomiting onto the bathroom floor after a blacked out thursday night I hold off until I can’t and then the act itself – convulsive, jagged glass and bile, perverse relief – sometimes I see patterns in these ink blot tile emissions revealing to me omens better left unprophesized note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their…
raquel is in the bathtub and the dog still has his testes. on tv they eat pastitsio which donna brought with your marijuana when you were still well enough to mispronounce pastitsio. there’s a groundhog in the garden we planted and never watered but still i blame him for the fruitlessness. its three months now and I know I haven’t visited your headstone but the muffins smell like nutmeg and at least I remember to…
While I was hiding empties in the bookshelf of my office you spoke to a recorder I gave you for your birthday, saving words I should have asked you for in person. I bought you audio versions of books I should have read aloud myself. I sent Raquel with chicken and rice soup while I refilled whiskey handles in the cabinet. I didn’t take you to the zoo to see Fiona ‘til you were dirt…
semi colon here or dash? a run on sentence grammar also dies note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.
“A six day drunk,” pep calls it, “back when showings were a week.” “At least!” mem nods, remembering rocking her brother’s death crib – she was five and he a perfect baby doll. “A six day drunk,” he carries on, “Out of town uncles passed out on the floor. Not anymore, a two hour wake if you’re lucky, plus the service, of course. Bing bang boom, you’re in the ground by noon.” In truth, we…
Raquel is reading crosswords to a zombie. Mum’s guesses are in gurgles, rasps, and groans. Google says that doesn’t mean she’s drowning So Raquel just writes “EPEE” for thirty down. She could maybe sleep with breathing machine beeping, Or even last week’s constant morphine pleading, But rusalka murmurs prove too much for slumber. She’s up until the sun comes up and then some. She gives another dose of meds, lays down – She wakes up…