Second-Hand Trickster

Coyote the icon, the master. Coyote the student. Coyote the retired horse thief, dropping breadcrumbs and scabs to guide his way home. Coyote the second-hand trickster, finding a lump of coal under his pillow.

Coyote the widower, caressing a dead woman’s hair, remembering the scent of her breasts, the tang of her thighs. Coyote crying into open palms after midnight. Coyote waking in the morning, taking a shower, going to work in an office selling insurance. Coyote the master. Coyote the slave.

-

"Second-Hand Trickster," along with "Ode to a Sidewalk" were included in Issue 61 of Pudding Magazine.

This is my third contribution to "The Journal of Applied Poetry." My poems "Frost on the Ocean," "Old No. 2," and "This Poem" were published in the Summer 2012 issue, and "And God . . ." and "Peter Pan Must Die" were included in the Summer 2011 issue.  

Pudding Magazine is a hard-copy press. To get a copy of the any single issue or subscribe to the magazine, please go here. 

Eric

Momma Dwarf . . . , Tracing Snowflakes

Momma Dwarf Has Another Child

As if being slapped around and

downgraded wasn’t enough, the “fat asteroid,”

Pluto, has another moon—

barely big enough to spin, yet

pulling weight around her momma’s

midriff. They have named her

S/2011 P1, but call her P4 for short.

(All the good family names were taken.) Caught

on spy camera playing

between her two closest siblings,

nary a squeak.

She makes it a quartet.

Portraits provided courtesy

of Hubble Studios.

-

Tracing Snowflakes

My wife is pregnant again,

and I am watching her

as she irons the coarse weaves of my cloak.

I am trying to write, feverishly.

I am Doctor Yuri Zhivago,

and I am in self-imposed exile,

tracing snowflakes on the window.

I am dreaming of Lara.

The Bolsheviks have raided the city

and have purged the souls of the people.

The personal life is dead in Russia.

History has killed it.

I have had my fill of bloodshed.

I have looked at death with wild eyes.

I am coming home to Tonya,

to Lara—

                       

I am coming home. The key

is still where she left it.

-

"Momma Dwarf Has Another Child" and "Tracing Snowflakes" were included in Issue #2 of Vector Press, a hard-copy poetry journal in its first year of publication.

Eric

No Longer

I had to update my status today.
I am no longer tied, in the social media,
to your picture or timeline. The news
was sudden again but not a surprise—
a disappearing act I've grown used to.
I do not assume some wicked intent.
I am no longer paranoid. We still
have each other in real time, in bed
in the morning and before the light
goes out at night, in the kitchen
where we almost always make dinner
together, and lunch is still worth
eating late or early (or even quickly,
if need be) so we can be face to face.
I am not alone in some forest of
falling trees with no one here to hear,
no one to see me. I am no longer
clinging only to tangible evidence
of our relationship—the PDAs and
risqué trysts in dark alleys. I have to
believe that the bruises will fade, and
we will remain “in a relationship,”
even if “it is complicated.” I mean, really,
what is a “domestic partnership” between
a man and a woman anyway?

-


"No Longer" is included in the 2012 Prize Winner Issue of Poetry Quarterly. An on-line preview of the issue can be viewed here.

On December 18, 2013, "No Longer" was read by Conrad Balliet on Conrad's Corner, WYSO 91.3 FM as part of his local poets project.


Eric

It is Spring

The day ends with rain falling on daffodils.

It is spring and has been for weeks. The flowers

are no longer thirsty. The sky
has cried on them and spat on them.

They have been drenched for days,

but the colors are bright and the petals

are large, threatening to bend stems over

and lie them gently on tall grass.

The day ends with rain falling. It has

been falling for days. The colors

are rainbowesque, only

without the crystal spectrum

of light from the hot sun.

A drenching like Noah’s flood,

almost half of the forty days down

and counting.

The day ends with daffodils drowning

two by two. The color of blood

and the color of the lost sun swirl

around a drain. And the ancient oarsmen

call desperately. The day ends

with rain and saturated flowers,

and colors blending into darkness,

and colors fading to black.

-

"It is Spring" was read on March 21, 2013 and again on June 5, 2013, by Conrad Balliet on his radio segment, Conrad's Corner, as part of his local Dayton poets project on WYSO 91.3 FM.

Eric

Two from across the pond

Lonely Spirit

While collecting souls, 

I stumbled upon the bones of an old friend. 

We lost touch during the hurricane, 

when the wind was blowing, 

and rain beat against the window. 

The lights flickered then failed. 

I left to buy whiskey and a blanket 

to keep us warm.

When I returned, it was dark. 

The door on the porch was ajar 

and he was gone. 

How his bones came to lie in the desert, 

I do not know. I may never know.

But I drank that bottle alone,

wet and tired.

-

Midwest Mud

The mud seems almost fresh,
but the footprints fossilized

over a frozen winter, exposed

by ebbing snow.

They were likely left
by settlers moving south, seeking
steady work somewhere in Texas,

where oil has yet to run dry, where
dreams have yet to die, where
mud is still soft and squishy.

-

"Lonely Spirit" and "Midwest Mud" are included in issue 13 of Turbulence Poetry, a British poetry magazine established in 2009 and based in Hull, East Yorkshire, England. To obtain a copy of issue 13 or a subscription to Turbulence, visit the "Buying Turbulence" page. 

This is my first overseas publishing credit!

Eric