Wrath

A memory: You raised your acid-venom

Voice saying you could not stand us. Our house

Is too small. We are cramped. You,
Screaming, left me solitary

In our merciless prison—your prison—

My home. Left only the rage in my

Head, unrelenting, passionate—

Telling me to chase; telling

Me that I should strike back, that

I did not deserve this. You

Must learn suffering—must

Learn what I must now learn: that

Patience is a virtue for the violent.

Breakfast

I try to remember why—

In Old English—morgenmete

Was the morning meal,

Not breakfast, like now,

Which breaks the period

After a night’s fast.

My mind wanders far

To think East, where

The poor in Burma eat

Fried rice with peas,

Served with green tea;

China’s breakfast includes

Noodles, soups, dim sum;

Japan has miso and nori;

But still back here there’s

Waffles and pancakes,

Sausage, eggs, biscuits;

And back in my mind, here—

My body, my temple—nothing.

Breathless Spring

Like a snowed yellow pale,
Spring pollen covers yards,
Homes; sticks like dust
The way neglect
Covers a mantelpiece
Or forgotten knick-knack.
But unlike snow,
Pollen doesn’t melt.
It lingers, instead—
Lets you breathe it in
So you can’t breathe—
Chokes you in meetings,
At dinner, everywhere.
Everywhere, people sneeze.
Cough. Sniffle. Snort.
Sneeze again, sounding
Like a shotgun
Blast ringing and echoing.
It kicks, repeats, and when
You hold up a tissue
Like a white flag to surrender,
The pollen makes you
Blow your brains out,
Right out through your nose,
In between your eyes.

"Bird Wood 5" by Matt Lively

An ekphrastic poem based on this.

A single plain wooden panel—
Cut seven inch by seven inch—
On which a bird stands without legs.
Why don’t you have legs little bird?
Why, someone has given you shoes,
Red, with heels, and they are there too,
But still you stand without your legs.
You have drawn wings, but cannot fly.
Your tree branch is not made of wood,
But oil and tar on panel—are you
The fifth of your kind? You don’t
Have legs, but still you stand.
I can see it in your eyes, bird—
That desire to fly, you see
It’s also mine: if you can stand
Without legs can I then fly,
Even though I don’t have wings
To beat? Do I need red heels, as well?
I think you’re trapped, little bird,
On that hunk of lifeless wood,
Like I am painted—skin and
Blood on bone, going nowhere.

Empathy For the Hungry Stray

It’s hard to be certain
When one’s arm is bitten
Whether the maxillary arcade hits
Bone first, or if it is the mandibular
That lacerates deep

Against one’s radius
Through punctured skin.
For a moment, the foaming,
Sanguine clamp of incisors
Against soft flesh fascinates,

But as the canines seize
Skin—tear through red layers
Of muscle—one screams;
When premolars rip
Away bleeding tissue,

One notes the saw of enamel
On ulna, and—jaw-locked—
The dog vociferates;
Were the arm not shredding,
One might wonder

At the hound’s pain and reason,
But instead one would drive
An ill-tempered foot hard
Into a soft, empty belly
Of an unpedigreed bitch.