11/22/2017 Dancing with Chowski: Poems by Kari RhyanTristan Loper
1 You long-legged before me Scrawling my nightmares Across a page Before it was a man With no pen And no form Now it’s you before me Long-legged and waiting For me to speak “I’m fine,” I say “Ground yourself,” She tells me Knowing I’m not here But grounding Grinds down every Everything That piercing, bloody joy That can only come from Floating 2 I can’t write on medication stretch out on planks keep them I punch it A hole through the knot I’ll make it my shush the capsules fall just the air bleeds out (pick them up) I can’t write on medication (two no but my one) said I can’t have a you if you’re never a now I’ll make it my shush the capsules fall just my sun faded (“You in live in half light.”) But I can’t write! I can’t write! (and you can’t live without your we) 3 Gus sticks out his mitt For beer money. He’s scarred from Elbow to wrist On account of his smoking a Camel And pumping gas A few years back. 4 I walked past a crippled corner Where a man was Digging in a ditch six feet down Preserving the root of a centennial dogwood Jerky orange-hatted and hungry For a fight he said, “All this for a fucking tree?!” On my heels at my back He yelled, “Yeah, I said that!” 5 I come out of the kitchen and think about everything I regret That time with the guy a name caller that careless purchase a paperweight. I move into the living room And think about Everything I regret That guy with the gun could get me killed the elder with a temper much worse than mine I sit at the computer And think about Everything I regret shooting down my hair making way for my fingers. The tool at the bar the one who said no and no the cowardice that enveloped after she that thing the time a friend left my eyes don’t look at me anymore the lie that was discovered after coming home the milk and the murder and marrying all made way for you. 6 I let my wife have chickens to leach out her mothering (She might die in childbirth.) “You bleed too much to carry,” I say. “An egg is an egg,” But she wants to see her face. 7 After the dog died I swept weekly The first week Wiry hair in bunny bunches The second A mound The third A wisp on a bristle I swept weakly until Her hair was gone 8 A military friend of mine showed his identification to airport security. “You’re a hero!” the officer said. I didn’t know you could tell a hero by looking at a card. 9 I’m so liberal I go to Whole Foods to get wasted. Bio: Kari Rhyan's previous work, Standby for Broadcast--a memoir on the dangers of canned patriotism, family loyalty, and discount retail--focused on her time as a Navy nurse in Afghanistan, and has received praise from Kirkus and Blue Ink, and are widely available online. www.krhyan.com Comments are closed.
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