Bruce Guenter CC
Sonnet (What next?)
Did you see the news? It’s a concussed day
in the republic. Two girls in bikinis tossing
a rubber brain back and forth. Is this history?
No. History is what happens when you’re trying
to make mojitos, put kids to bed, when you’re trying
not to look. Please don’t cry. I’ll do the thing
where I pound the table so hard
food jumps off the plate and into my
mouth. That used to cheer you up.
There are crowds & debris, sad songs in the streets.
I want to carry you away from all this.
I’ll put you down some place safe, like where the forest
has taken back the strip club, where no one sees
your tears, & the stage belongs to the trees.
Sonnet (this fire)
We are sitting by a fire,
one of those theater fires
made of red and yellow and orange
tissue paper, a light bulb at the center,
a little fan inside to make the flames flicker.
We’re surrounded by trees made of chicken
wire & papier mache. I can’t see past
them. The sky is flat & there’s no moon
or stars. I don’t know where we are or how
we got here. But your face is kind & the
fake flames shine in your glasses. You say
“Beyond the trees, lies a darkness, followed
by a darker darkness,” which is the same as
saying the only place that matters is here.
Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.