what about all the poems
I haven’t written?
every breath
of my eyelids is a poem, every
second of every day
is a poem, every movement,
every sigh, every tear
is a tiny poem
left to cry itself
to sleep.
all these unborn poems
hum inside my bones
like bees, bubble
in my throat like a
scream, shine
from my hair like
the moon silvery pale,
I am eldritch with them,
pregnant
with so many
ghosts. my tiny
little poems, I cradle you
in my blood
as I embrace
the void.
I didn’t realize
that poem I posted
from 2015 was
incomplete. I didn’t mean
to leave the reader hanging, when
a simple period
would have sufficed.
to be honest I skimmed it
and thought it seemed
good enough. I wondered why
I didn’t post it last year
or the year before. now
it’s out there, seemingly
unfinished. I would edit
but I’d have to find it.
maybe sometimes
it’s okay to leave
in the middle
my fur is red
as a flame, my claws
can cut you to ribbons
without even trying – let alone
my razor-sharp teeth.
my wild, wide green eyes
fascinate my prey
for the few short moments
before its death.
the unearthly sound
of my howl terrifies
anyone and anything
in hearing distance.
and yet, if I love you,
if you are found worthy,
I’ll sit by your side
tame as a housecat
and purr. pet my
silky fur, feel
my deep rumbling growl
and know that
I can defend you
better than several
armed humans can.
surely you’ll want
to stay in my
good graces.
his whole life, he struggled.
a misfit, a half-breed, neither
fish nor fowl, and barely
tolerated by either.
he had too much magic
in his blood
to be trusted by peasants,
and too much dirt
under his nails
for the highborn.
he toed a fine line
with little respect, until
his leader died and only then
could he set his own plans
in motion. even then
his own secret arrogance
soon brought him low
again. and now he waits,
silent, enchanted
by his own consent.
he has hundreds of years
to think about his many
mistakes. he watches
as the seasons pass,
and the stars whirl
above his head. kingdoms rise
and fall while he keeps
his lonely vigil, waiting
to be freed.
poor, foolish,
misunderstood Luap. what a
faithless, oathbreaking sucker.
still, he wrote the histories,
and now no one even knows
his real name.
for eighty years
they have been putting it on:
showing their bulls
and presumably cleaning up
their shit. this year
the grandsons – and maybe -daughters –
of the farmers who showed
their bulls at the very first
bull show will compete,
probably showing
the great great great grandchildren
of the bulls that
won the first one.
Angus, Charolais, Gelbvieh,
Simmental, and Hereford are
some of the breeds they will
be selling. such exotic names
for a most domestic animal.
afterwards the buyers and sellers
will have a dinner at the
Williams Lake Curling Club.
I wonder if any feuds occur
over a hotly disputed prize-winning animal
lost in a bidding war,
or if everyone is
the best of friends.
this all sounds very exciting,
if one is even remotely interested
in bulls. I guess they need
something to do up there
in the middle of nowhere,
British Columbia. we can’t all
be lucky enough to live
the open mic life
here in NYC.
when I said “fuck you!”
earlier today, and accused you
of being five days early,
I was wrong. it turned out
you are right on time.
it was the computer
that made a mistake,
in the form of my
tracking website, which
consistently overestimates
your arrival by three to five
days, and my memory
of the incorrect predicted date
that led to this incorrect
assumption of your error.
I’m sorry. next time I’ll try
to remember that you’re usually
quite prompt, and reserve
judgement until I’ve
done the math.
it’s been quite a while
since our paths have crossed.
you seem different
than how I remember you –
smaller, shabbier, and sallower – but
I don’t think you
actually changed. it’s more
that I see you with new eyes.
I’ve changed, and
what used to fascinate me
no longer holds the same appeal. I’m
not sorry, because
we were doomed anyway,
and I no longer need or want
there to ever be an us.
I’m glad that I can now
appreciate what you can offer
as a friend, instead of
languishing over someone
who could never have
been more than that.
trying to find me – I’m
not there. as if
you cared to look,
anyway. you’re not
going to have me
to kick around
this week!
and don’t bother
trying to rile me – I don’t care!
so very much so
that I bothered
to write a poem about
how little it matters.
have fun then,
chasing your
shadow and chatting up
new girls. I’m
enjoying myself
somewhere you’re
not.
that four forty five a.m.
impulse Mexican order
was not worth it. first of all
they kept calling me
to tell me they were
almost there (which was
a complete, shameless lie) just
when I had decided
to rest my eyes on the couch
for a second. secondly, final delivery
(after the many false alarm
phone calls) took place
fully one and a half
hours after the initial order
was placed. thirdly and really
most importantly, the food
wasn’t very good. I regret this
whole experience, La Norteña,
and soon, so will you.
I’ll just hide behind
the North Wind,
hollow my bones into a flute
to be played by a zephyr,
go be a droplet
in a rainstorm, then
transform all my water
into vapor before freezing to
an icicle, and ceasing to exist
in my current form.
don’t watch, then, as I fly away,
feathers gleaming black with an iridescent sheen,
cawing evil prophecies
to the wind. let no one see
as I leap upstream, showing
my gleaming pink and silver belly.
mortals, avert your eyes as I step
delicately into the woods
on slender pointed hooves,
lest you be blinded.
all of these are child’s play;
a hop, skip and a jump
compared to what’s
being asked of me.
I’ll leave a feather and a rock
in my place. they will
tell my tale, exhale
my radiant breath
to those that come
after.
R. Brookes McKenzie 