November 2, 2023

Scouring the Lower Boughs for Ripe Apricots


That tears it—I really should name the daydream starring
                                                            five of the twelve

Disciples comparing the number
And severity of their gaping wounds.

And the Sea of Galilee—
                             how it loves to hold the moon hostage—

Birthplace, I want to say, of the term, “blinding.”

Yesterday’s prompt from the banyan trees:
                                                  Lean into suffering, my child

Led, tragically, to the demise of an entire
Block of Vermont cheddar, extra sharp—

Who needs a gallbladder anyway to breathe?
To bathe and change

One’s aging father? Much less to read Bly’s clumsy
                                       translation of Vallejo

To the faceless dealing fentanyl
To the trembling in the arroyos, the alleyways

Downtown, the school playgrounds,
The underground State Capital building parking lot—

                                                 Even when they give me
The cold shoulder, I vow to chat with

Detached compassion to the broken parts of me.

Hello bum knee
, I’ll say.

Good morning, right shoulder bursitis.

Have a seat, somatic tinnitus.  

There, there, my need to be right.

(For a far more inclusive list, see my ex-wife).

O father, scouring the lower boughs for ripe apricots—
                                        where in godsname

Shall I enshrine your clunky walker?
Your fake bamboo cane?

And what of your go-to monosyllabic insults?
Woven as they are with I’m sorry’s and

What do you want from me’s
                                         mumbled low enough

So as not to scare the swallows.  The trigger happy police.
The tongue tied, light deprived eaves.

There is no previous item
Go back to Top Menu
There is no next item
Go back to Top Menu
A Journal of International Poetry
All content is the property of the individual authors and artists

Site designed by SpicerDigital - Dixon, New Mexico