The spoon is still on the table, its small mirror holding the ceiling. Nothing dramatic happened just a chair pulled back and a silence learning a new shape.
You taught us that history eats quietly, that angels prefer basements, that the ordinary object is already a confession.
Somewhere, a fork listens to a war it cannot stop. A shoe waits for its foot like a thought refusing certainty. God is not absent, He is distracted.
You knew how laughter survives the century, how terror keeps house inside the refrigerator, how a poem can be a joke told to the dead that they understand immediately.
Now the world continues without permission. A streetlight flickers. A man misunderstands his life. The universe shrugs and means well.… ...continue reading
Come here kitten, help me fix the problems again. The sorrow and tangible sense of illusive confusion. Make them go away for a minute. There it is. The body resonant. An internal salve. I wrote this poem once already. The eyes, tinted glass, stain the mind. Today dark red. Yesterday a more placid indigo. By slight variations console the day into a rest from fervor. Forgiving the self for its knotted essence. The judge sinks into the couch, tired. The visibly sick deserve forgiveness but those comrades closest merit not. Collapse it all with a single blow of the hammer, if you will, though it has weathered worse fury and torment than this mind can muster. Stain the days as they must be stained. Unforgiving rain, cleans the cicatrices.… ...continue reading
At 42 years old, married and in good health, some doctor sucker punched Ephraim Scott Sommers with a diagnoses of type 1 diabetes, a chronic autoimmune disease that requires constant monitoring: “a half-inch needle which is, right now, buried in my soul and giving me an important but boring reading of my current blood sugar.” The parade of medical equipment and doctor jargon is comical, but the very real threat of dying stains each page of Diabetic Gumdrops. Even with medical insurance and a loving wife, the destructive force of this disease is shown to be awesome and absurd, a war that will likely continue until his death, and this battle requires advanced weaponry: “Dexcom, G-7, Patch, and Sensor…heart pills and vitamins and insulin pens and monitor kits and boxes of glucagon.”… ...continue reading
Lily stood in the bay window of the living room looking out at the street. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the thumb of each hand tapped the taught muscle of the opposing bicep. She tapped her right foot in perfect timing with her thumbs.
Her son, Henry, stood beside her. He was seven and small for his age, barely able to see over the loropetalems outside the window. He did not have his arms crossed over his chest. He did not tap his thumbs or his foot. Although it couldn’t be guessed from his posture, he was ready to run and throw his arms wide and hug.
Then Malcolm’s Lexus emerged from beyond the Freis’ privet hedge three houses down. It came on swiftly, and then Malcolm braked suddenly, as if almost forgetting that this was his house, and turned into the driveway.… ...continue reading
Thursday, August 30, 1975, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Get Down” was at #8 on Billboard’s Top 100
Yorkshire’s asphalt dipped down to the new drain grate, before snaking dead end into Tecumseh Bluff. The kids knew the path, knew where to walk to avoid people and animals, and on rainy days to avoid puddles that would soak through their shoes and socks. Teachers would scold them for playing in puddles and classmates would make fun of them for being poor and for being from the westside and for having to walk to school. But the colossus that grew here was matchless in the eyes of west enders and few knew better how to navigate its bypass than the neighborhood kids.
After a half day’s heavy rain, debris would cover the grate, a mixture of maple leaves, pine needles, and sticks sealing it tightly and creating a swirling main of pollen, drowned insects, empty cigarette packs, candy wrappers, and band fliers pulled from windshields along the serpentine path.… ...continue reading
Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.… ...continue reading
