Acorn Collection

   The Apocalypse

They roam the streets,
brain dead, scorching Mother Earth,
 
leaving a wide wake of waste.
All sentient things
 
recoil from their tactile touch
or die.
 
The atmosphere hangs acrid;
the water, metallic in taste
 
and texture.
Toxic. And they consume
 
and abandon, discard and disseminate
sans regulation.
 
Darwin’s theoretical specter shrugs.
This species has made
 
the idea of natural selection
wholly unnatural.
 
Tides churn into tsunamis.
Fracked earth trembles and quakes.
 
Weather rages. The wind storms.
If they were zombies,
 
we could end those brain-dead
monsters.

-

    Buyer’s Market

 
That house in the middle of the block
is empty in the suburbs.
 
The house is empty,
and it is not the only one—
 
the grass is long. There are
cracks in the sidewalk.
 
Junk mail overflows
the mailbox.
 
There are no curtains
on any window. It’s quiet;
 
there is no laughter.
There is no streetlight
 
on the far-right corner,
where the neighbors sleep.
 
The news stacks up daily
on the curb in the suburbs. 

-

    Cats and Dogs

It's pouring outside,

so my muscle memory

vacuums the living room floor

instead of mowing the lawn.

I don't have gills, so

instead of walking on water,

I moonwalk to “Billie Jean”

on my iPod.

 

All of a sudden,

I am Robin Williams

dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire. I am

letting the vacuum lead.

 

It's raining cats and canines,

so my muscle memory

sweeps the kitchen

instead of raking the yard.

-

    Dissolutions

There is nothing left

after a day of SAPCR petitions

and discovery. The divorce

he filed today was not his own,
and it was paid for in multiple ways;
money is always a figure.
 
Day after day,
he aids client after client
dissolve
 
that which once made them whole,
divide community assets, fault.
Or no fault.
 
            If love was ever a factor,
a numerically critical part
of the equation,
 
it is now known as x—
the one variable neither party can
solve for. Primary
 
possession is nine-tenths,
and the final tenth is unspent anger
and negative regret.

Sometimes, they add
subtraction of family names

out of spite.

-

    Ice Packs

I thought I was dead,
because the sidewalk under the overpass
is ice cold
 
and I huddle there alone
for warmth,
 
while the rain falls frozen
around me
 
and the frostbite on my fingers
packs the throbbing pain
in numbness.
 
Street dogs cozy up
around my cocooned body,
 
which I have tucked
against a concrete wall
 
to evade the wind.
 
If we wake in the morning,
I will share scraps

of gratitude.

-

Mostly Swamp

I am watching the trees sway

as the warm wind whips. It is

not yet hurricane season, 

but along the Gulf Coast,
where the terrain is mostly swamp
and delta,
                        storms swallow trees.
 
The soft terra firma gives way
when roots push to the surface
and trees lie down.
 
For a moment, perhaps,
its lumber becomes a dam,
rerouting city planning
 
                        and the water rises.
 
Boats launch from driveways
and tow trucks get to work
towing flooded cars.
 
This bayou city is mostly swamp,
and its civil engineers

are swamped with calls.

-

    Oh, My Stars

            —Dear Urania
 
Give me the blue moon
to hang outside my window,
buxom and bright. Let it
linger until fingernail slight.
 
Consider. Yes, reconsider
the arbitrary eight orbs
of my youth.
Give me back my Pluto!
 
To hell with Haumea and Makemake.
Give no weight to Eris.
Don’t recognize Ceres.
 
Affirm the time-worn truths
of childhood dioramas. Styrofoam
spheroids never decay.
 
Let Orion and the two bears
battle for another millennia. Who cares?
Give me back my memories.
 
I ask this with all humility.
            And, please,
do not send a giant asteroid

to smite me.

 

-

   Second Chances 

The field glows emerald  
at dusk,
            and the sky is cool blue.
It is cloudless.
 
Yesterday was so warm.
 
We have been given a second chance
at springtime, and there is
a gentle breeze
 
            blowing
from the west.
Crickets chirp
 
in the distance,

and the scent is jasmine.

-

    That je ne sais quoi 

I could tell that he was kin
before I saw him.
 
His blood rang clear in his voice,
as Cajun as it comes—
 
not broken English
or even patois français.
 
            Perhaps,
it was the washboard rhythm,
 
the jug beat,
or the way he said “sister”
 
and “Baton Rouge”—
mais, c’est le je ne sais quoi.
 
He looks like one of our cousins
from Shreveport
 
or one of the Abbeville twins,
            the angry son.
 
He did not order the mud bugs,
like his buddies did,
 
because this is H-Town,
and he knows better.

-

These nine (yes, 9) poems are published together in the 2021 issue of The Acorn Review, a publication of Grossmont College.

Eric