Four Poems by Justin Karcher

For About Three Minutes and 45 Seconds the Dead Come back to Life

while the eclipse shrouds all of Buffalo.
My mom tells me she sees the ghost of my dad
parking the car across the street.
I don’t try to redirect her eyes to the sky
because grief is its own kind of eclipse.
A sudden darkness covering up our hearts.
If someone is ready to look, you let them look.

*

East of Eden in Western New York

It’s midnight and I’m returning a book
to the library. Carl is standing near
the drop box and lifts up his shirt
to show me the spot where he got shot
all those years ago. He hides the wound
after I give him a couple bucks and hurries
into the street where a car has to swerve
to avoid hitting him. I toss the book
into the abyss and notice a crowd
in front of this house. There’s a cellist
on the top porch playing beautiful lullabies.
Some trees turn into snakes. They shed
their leaves like tears as complete strangers
hold hands to keep warm as summer
starts to slither away.

*

Life Is Learning How to Live Inside a Broken Poem

During the poetry workshop, we spend
a lot of time wondering how it would feel
waking up with your skin turned inside out.
“Like an alien,” I say, my mouth
half-filled with cheese. Julio quickly replies
“Half the country thinks I already am one.”
There’s some uncomfortable laughter
and I look out the window at twentysomethings
hurrying toward the busy queer bar
at the end of the block
looking for that feeling of home.

I remember smoking there on the patio one night
listening to a woman tell her friend
about a dream she keeps having
where she locks her newborn son in the car
and as she’s trying to figure out how to free him
an angry crowd appears just to scream at her.
When she wakes up, there are always tears on her pillow
and she wonders why she never breaks the glass.
“I’m here for you” is all her friend says and I realize
that sometimes that’s all anyone ever has to say.

*

It Can Take Years to Understand Denial if You Ever Do

I find a nearly dead man on Carolina St
barefoot and shirtless and lying on the concrete
inside a circle of mismatched sneakers.

An elderly couple comes out of their home
to see what’s going on. They make the sign
of the cross and I call 911. I can hear the bags

under the dispatcher’s eyes blowing in the wind
of broken faith. But she does what she has to.
When first responders arrive, they perform

what looks like a miracle.

Later in the night I’m at an open mic and I notice
all the girls wearing Hozier shirts from his concert
earlier this week. When the café closes, they walk

across the street to Bidwell Pkwy and start singing
“Take Me to Church.” Between a clearing of trees
a unicorn carcass is rotting in the moonlight.

I tell my friends that a group of unicorns
can be called a blessing but they’re not listening.
I’m scared they’re not seeing anything at all.

*

Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre). https://www.justinkarcherauthor.com