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
