2 Poems

lives in the mess, in the darkness

of swamp.

            Absorbs living things with a wide-open mouth.

A mouth so large and hollow, it could be a black

hole.

            The large hole won’t ever be filled.

The mouth, like the Bullfrog, stays wide-open;

Wanting, still.

It devours lesser creatures you once saw

as important.

            It negates those tiny specks you once thought

were threats.

grief’s sister is mourning, turned inside-out.

grief’s rallying cry is deep and loud.

           Jug-O-Rum, it sings, as if

that’s what you need. You might hear a whole chorus

if the loss is Universal. Sound alerts others with grief

            to its gathering circles.

grief waits for you patiently. It ignores you

ignoring it.

grief hibernates when too cold, emerging

in warmth.

Fully alive in freshwater ponds and marshes,

it demands you to walk through the muck

            at your harshest. It sings like a shriek

as it consumes helpless prey: That’s you;

you’re the mouse, the fish, the snake.

Deep in the mud, at your worst

and finest—grief coughs and releases your heart

           from the sludge, and the sounds of the chorus

suddenly change, as Jug-O-Rum, Jug-O-Rum

            croak forth This-Is-Love.

                               This-Is-Love.

The last pear out, or the apple

taken from the bowl on some old Grandma’s

table. The last time she kissed you; the last time

you kissed someone on the lips without knowing

what it meant. The death of innocence. The final

straw; last one in the bag. Bag of bones before they

carry you home & Salvation awaits at the very last gate.

Last time you wore socks with no shoes, the last time

getting the blues self-resolved. Now we need more

than time, rhyme, and prayers: Now we need chemicals

scalpel, repairs. Final day of classes, nothing more

to study. A new car arrives, goodbye to old jalopy.

Nostalgia is a drink made with bitters to chase

pungent sharp shock of hangover away. The last time

“The last time” was ever a lie. The last time the truth

set anyone free. Make my blood run yellow in the black

skillet—crack the timid shell of one last egg. The final

bite, last cube of ice, one last thing that I did right,

and now, I hold all sacred things within cupped hands,

ready to be set free: Lift palms and release like two

white doves every last moment in a spiritual stance;

then turn, and wind that music box—

I want us to gather;

we still need to dance.