Summer 2012 - Vol. 9, Issue 3

"Hunger Strike"

 

Darkness swims viridian

this time of year. Hollow,

and you taught me nothing

except how to hold nothing.

All gets ripped away

with harvest as tender leaves are plucked

regardless of time invested.

Swallow hard now,

this is going to hurt a little, you say;

not a lie for once.

 

Dusk begins to blot the edges

as all becomes tremulous and bruised blue

—the sky, the soil, the roots.

Everything that reaches back to you and me

and this fallow space between us.

But we dig anyway, wrench back and show

just how gutless we are.

 

How we would rather feel nothing, acknowledge nothing,

bump hips in apology like nothing ever happened.

 

And nothing will.

 

 

"Black Marks on a Driveway: Daddy’s Home"

 

It only takes a second or eight

for frozen squares and stones

to get demoted

 

like forgotten ribbons,

a purple backpack

with a broken strap,

and an unused lipstick tube.

 

Patent leather hops for every scotch—

maybe it was never a game

 

                        One.

                   TwoThree.

 

when the rhythm tangled;

twined with rocks

clacking the sidewalk,

clinking the snifter.

 

                         Four.

 

and shadows

of each key—

house, office, ignition—

 

                          Five.

 

buried in a pocket with lint,

peanut shells;

every possession confronted

 

                      SixSeven.

 

by a purple-chalked outline,

tagged with a ribbon

that could never be beautiful.