Photos at the
Graveyard
We visited the graveyard
often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a
hill
As if to place the dead
skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I
would
Snap photos of the markers,
hoping
And simultaneously not
hoping
That in one of them there would
be
The wisp or specter of a
ghost
When the products popped
out
There was always that
moment
Of ethereal mystery as the
image
Faded into firm being.
Standby
Wait a moment says the
click
Dull slumber, the lull of
crowds
A spark, then darkness
Feedback of the microphone
Poison to impatient ears
The program will continue
For now, we pantomime
With uncertain, strange
gestures
Waiting for the earth to
resume.
Superhero City
Fourth grade math, split with
fifth graders
The aged eagle swooping over
the room
Resting at his nest on
occasion, then up again
Back and forth, spreading grey
feathers
Sleep with your math
books, class
Practice your fractions, and
then practice more
Last year, the kid had won a
division contest
Now he is confused, one number
over another
A strange display, another
language
With about half his mind, the
pencil forms walls
Small figures in tights,
vigilante emblems
Of course, the paper is
snatched by the talon
Superhero City, the
pedagogue intoned
Will not solve your math
problems.
Missing Dog
Metaphors
Down the bends of the road,
they called his name
Over and over again like a
meditation
small dogs have a flaw in
feeling larger
All the world, all people,
constitute a friendly place
Surely, there is no harm to be
found here
So, the family searches the
familiar places
Around them, the homes of
strangers are quiet
After two hours, they discover
their dogs betrayal
He has taken up with another
family
The new father already
purchased food and a bed
Weve always wanted
one, the new mother says
The smile spreads across her
face like butter
They walk away sadly, members
of the old pack
Listening to the yaps of the
tiny Brutus.
Soothsayer
an ancient wisdom
or just scribbles from
yesterday
prophecy
or product of a bad
dinner
tiny words to bind
compress and heal
a wounded soul
Start Stop
silent men around me
seem to know
there is a time for rutting
and feeding on corn
a time to sit still in cold
start the cleaning
of the firearm and stop
start the squeezing of
target practice trigger
stop again
a preconfigured notion
of manhood starts
and I stop it at its
bubbling source
thereby redefining.
Fragments of the
World
moments floated past me
as I walked the old
courtyard
photos suspended in the air
images of a younger me
a more frightened person
I thought of the crisis
time
when I had to decide
between who I was and who
others made me out to be
every poor decision
and choice of wording
navigating to my purpose
and how soon
rain would come and autumn
would be thicker than
memory
Fried Mushrooms
mother fried them
in butter
like everything else
they started as brown
and webbed
then were rolled
and carefully breaded
we ate them at the small
metal table
my father made for her
always patently
domestic in his gifts