13.
I Am I
The flowers may never be well again.
Wrapped in pearls and rain, some
odious presence still lurks, more
than willing to suck the water from
its roots, pluck off its dress skirts
one by one. I may never be well
again. Paper-thin, one-dimensional
in an all too-terrifying world. I
have drunk from the cup of youth,
backwashing its unpromising taste.
I wore dresses and went out with
boys I never even liked. This is the
dilemma—I am a book with no
page numbers, a house with no
windows. There have been times of
great disorientation, a game of pin
the tail on the donkey, blindfolded
and spun directionless. But it wasn’t
a birthday party. Even if a hand guided
me, I could not follow. Even in the
dark, I could not give myself to
another’s body, flesh. All are distractions.
In the dark, I would whisper my
name again and again until it meant
nothing. Was I too—nothing?
I have done it all. I have run through
downpours and tasted the sky’s flesh.
Alone, or with another boy. I am sad.
Maybe even sadder for him. I am
a cat eagerly rubbing against a
newcomer’s legs, sapping them of
their affection and energy. Like a lion
with no claws, I preach courage
but feign sickness at the sight of blood.
I am I. I am you.
~Tonya Eberhard~
*
*
12.
CARDINALS
Cold fronts
enter spring, but cardinals
sing their
frigid songs despite soft snow.
Red lips
still curl over the sidewalk’s cigarettes
but warmth
dissipates when smoke leaves the body.
Pale hands
reach from corners of blurry photographs–
push through
crowds of these-were-my-lovers–
tines of
bright puncture darkness. Negative dust
turns to
light: the telescope observed your eyes
wandering the
dark. Believe the perched cardinal
is lost love
thinking of you who sculpts the moon
out of papier-mâché–
scope the abyss for stars
but smell the
art’s silver crumble on your skin.
11.
MORNING
We reach for
jagged rocks, the twist
and slide of
fingers: morning rose in silk.
The cold
sheets cling to warmth and
disassociate–
that's when the open window
invites the
low static of engines, white
noise of
chirps. Our eyes thrush
and perch,
cradle into shared twigs,
into thorns,
and gently lift. We whittle
our words
into stems too thin
*
10.
TRUST ISSUE
Neither of us
know
signs to look
for
when the
other
talks to another.
Glances
become knives.
We fling
blades
onto caution
signs
which clang
then lay dull
on concrete
until the
sharp
sun of
morning.
*
9.
ANEW
I
am full of vacancy and noise and technically six glasses
of
water before bedtime. Much can be said about wanting
to
purify yourself. I dipped myself in water again last
week.
I’m telling you it works: you mash two bodies
together
until fizzled and deflated on the cusp– saggy but
renewed.
Steam leaves the bucket with a fat-lipped breath,
purple.
Sometimes it does not work. By the hearth,
just
your long, brown hair. By the heart, nothing.
Just
a worn wood by the cabin in the woods.
Mountains
of snow in my head– she freezes
my
thoughts at the peak. A gambler. A hope.
Red strings.
A harp. Faith. Burn, burn, burn.
8.
Rides In
Visibly on treatment
Disguised in mind
After an unattached
master nominates love
Addiction...is love
vacant sons
and tombed monotones
candlesticks
mimic belligerent
booze hounds,
we are
stripped to
the bear
moans
I’ll charge
the ride then let
you stay
drunken
nights in fogged catharsis
hippie mambas
with broken wrists, she’ll
take my
chance with death’s kiss, pulled
her rubes out
yesterday
I know
where to fake
it
my conflicted
patience
it’s your
name branded on my mind among
fields of
cotton candy suicides and …
Visibly on treatment
Disguised in mind
After an unattached
master nominates love
Rehab...is love
make a plea
then wreak myself, disoriented
nights in
film noir motels
my better
half is not for sale
I’ll solicit
Gestaltian lines and then
I’ll wait
vicodin and
maybe I’ll numb a song
trazodone
then sleep will sing along
transubstantiation
is even on my mind
seek until
noon,
a solicited
sacrament of
staying
alive
Visibly on treatment
Disguised in mind
After an unattached
master nominates love
Love
Is
…
*
7.
enshrined among
cherub chants of morose
calligraphy
“irises made of moth
wings”
were the sextons
in the cemeteries
of his scars
a lost echo lingers
a shadowed
afterthought
besieged in his verses for
your enlightenment
*
“Irises Made of Moth Wings” by Christian O’Keeffe (Crisis Chronicles Press,
2014)
*
6.
Harry
Experimental
lab dog
locked up, caged,
used for drawing blood—
never barked
’til he saw me.
locked up, caged,
used for drawing blood—
never barked
’til he saw me.
My sister
rescued him.
Brought him to the farm.
Joined Lucy, Linda and Cassie.
Dad died and I moved home
to help Mom with the cattle.
Elvis—a flop-eared Basset hound—
soon joined the pack.
Tractors overheat
and antifreeze kills.
We buried Linda.
Mom adopted Tisha,
a diabetic poodle
whose owner could not keep her.
Mother moved to Minnesota
taking Tisha and Cassie with her
leaving Harry behind
to keep me and Elvis company.
One evening
no welcoming bay
greeted me.
Elvis’s golden voice silenced.
Smelled him, found him a week later
bloated in the sweltering sun
between the sandbox
and the paint-peeled board fence.
Harry became my sole companion.
That little off-white colored,
wiry- haired flea-bitten cur
traveled everywhere with me.
Once in a convenience store
while purchasing a soda and a snickers
a flea bounced out of my beard,
jumping all over the counter
as I endeavored to squash it.
I wanted to kill Harry
and told him so
when I crawled into the truck.
Harry loved chasing cows
and cows chased Harry.
Harry got trampled.
His hind legs became gimpy.
Harry aged over the years.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen…perhaps older.
No way to really know.
Harry and I traveled weekends
between the farm
and Kyle where I taught.
On one such farm visit,
Harry did not summon to my call.
I figured he was out romping
with the cows again.
Left him enough food
and water for the week
as I traveled back to Kyle.
Hoped he wouldn’t get trampled again.
When I returned,
I found him
drowned—
drowned in the sump hole,
in my basement.
Looking for warmth
nestled next
to the concrete foundation,
fell through the open window
and drowned—
drowned in the sump pump hole
of my drowned basement floor.
Legs too gimpy to crawl
from out the hole.
Man’s best friend
drowned in that awful
dungeon hole.
Drowned,
legs too gimpy
to crawl
from out that dungeon hole.
Harry.
Har—ry.
Har...
Brought him to the farm.
Joined Lucy, Linda and Cassie.
Dad died and I moved home
to help Mom with the cattle.
Elvis—a flop-eared Basset hound—
soon joined the pack.
Tractors overheat
and antifreeze kills.
We buried Linda.
Mom adopted Tisha,
a diabetic poodle
whose owner could not keep her.
Mother moved to Minnesota
taking Tisha and Cassie with her
leaving Harry behind
to keep me and Elvis company.
One evening
no welcoming bay
greeted me.
Elvis’s golden voice silenced.
Smelled him, found him a week later
bloated in the sweltering sun
between the sandbox
and the paint-peeled board fence.
Harry became my sole companion.
That little off-white colored,
wiry- haired flea-bitten cur
traveled everywhere with me.
Once in a convenience store
while purchasing a soda and a snickers
a flea bounced out of my beard,
jumping all over the counter
as I endeavored to squash it.
I wanted to kill Harry
and told him so
when I crawled into the truck.
Harry loved chasing cows
and cows chased Harry.
Harry got trampled.
His hind legs became gimpy.
Harry aged over the years.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen…perhaps older.
No way to really know.
Harry and I traveled weekends
between the farm
and Kyle where I taught.
On one such farm visit,
Harry did not summon to my call.
I figured he was out romping
with the cows again.
Left him enough food
and water for the week
as I traveled back to Kyle.
Hoped he wouldn’t get trampled again.
When I returned,
I found him
drowned—
drowned in the sump hole,
in my basement.
Looking for warmth
nestled next
to the concrete foundation,
fell through the open window
and drowned—
drowned in the sump pump hole
of my drowned basement floor.
Legs too gimpy to crawl
from out the hole.
Man’s best friend
drowned in that awful
dungeon hole.
Drowned,
legs too gimpy
to crawl
from out that dungeon hole.
Harry.
Har—ry.
Har...
ry.
My tortured soul struggles,
eternally fettered
to the concrete wall
rising from my dungeon floor.
The demonic midnight
starless sky peering,
ever peering
through the wicked open window
into the blackened abyss
of my murky sump-pump soul.
My eyes eternally opened,
My tortured soul struggles,
eternally fettered
to the concrete wall
rising from my dungeon floor.
The demonic midnight
starless sky peering,
ever peering
through the wicked open window
into the blackened abyss
of my murky sump-pump soul.
My eyes eternally opened,
eternally
staring
at the white hairy mass
floating in that garish hole.
at the white hairy mass
floating in that garish hole.
~Daniel G. Snethen~
*
5.
inertia
we are
waiting
we have been
for hours, days, decades
we are abject
heads tilted
towards the vacuum of space
or the vacuum
within
we have
exhausted our resources
our phones
failing to distract
our
loved-ones querulous
surely we are
the playthings
of some
thwarting force
set up and
forgotten
look at our
faces
slack eyes
milky with fluorescence
we ought to slap
each other
raise a hand
against indifference
~Devon Balwit~
*
4.
Severed
Neck snapped
diving,
self severed
into
before &
after.
Then, I
stepped
without
thinking.
Now, I dream
step.
People always
wonder
what
works—meaning
bowels &
dick.
Bowels are
bagged;
dick yields
to other
nerves—earlobes,
cheek,
chest. Those
who love me
have hands
for two.
Do I regret
the jump,
the
not-checking
for stones?
Do you regret
heartbeats,
wasted urge
&
impulse?
Slaves to
Chronos,
we beget
next,
scanning for
signs.
All I can
say,
you can say:
life’s
better than
death.
This making,
telling,
taking—
I’ll take it.
~Devon Balwit~
~Devon Balwit~
*
3.
That Love Shit—A Ghazal
Uh, I’m
texting you, and all, because
I’m trying
to, you know, convey shit—
It’s not so
easy for me to write—I’d rather
shoot some
hoops or drink than say shit—
But you
ladies like romance, I’m told,
Netflix,
candlelight—all that gay shit—
I like you,
so I’m stepping outside the box,
taking it
slow, trying to delay shit—
Can you gimme
a sign, message me, something,
to let me
know if we’re okay and shit—
I don’t wanna
waste my time if you don’t dig me.
I’m crossing
my fingers, but I won’t pray shit—
Come on, baby—a
happy face, a thumbs up,
a Call of Duty
mission—I’ll obey and shit—
You won’t be
sorry. I’m a good guy.
Do me a
solid. I’ll repay you. Shit!
~Devon Balwit~
*
2.
Breaking
Up
You
take the crab, now bright red
and grimy with Old Bay, and
pull its legs off. They don’t work
anymore. Crack them open; suck
the meat out, lips tight around
the soft casing. Bite down -
that’s fine. Some people
turn the thing over
and pull the penis off,
shiv the knife in under the shell.
and grimy with Old Bay, and
pull its legs off. They don’t work
anymore. Crack them open; suck
the meat out, lips tight around
the soft casing. Bite down -
that’s fine. Some people
turn the thing over
and pull the penis off,
shiv the knife in under the shell.
My sister used to pile all the edible bits
to one side, to have all at once,
a feast. I eat each piece when
it’s hot. The spice burns
the mouth.
~Louise
Robertson~
*
*
1.
Back in College
He told me how he gets himself off, the position
of his fingers, how they penetrate, how
the knobs of his bones push on him.
I kept this to myself to prove something. I had to give up
the sneer on my face when I would have told it.
I had to be in the club of people who know
him like this. I wanted to put it down, a rock in the yard.
A rock in someone else’s yard.
I wanted to curl my face and spit out
everything he told me. He’s the guy who
thought I ate too much when I ate at all.
This showed his soft insides,
his yield and let go. No one should
ever know he was that human.
~Louise
Robertson~
