Tag: untitled poems

Two Poems by Scott Ferry

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[sometimes the kitchen cleans itself]

sometimes the kitchen cleans itself
the shower shines white as the prayers of clouds

i look around and there are no grievances
even god’s nametag is crisp

and i take a breath and wait
another breath and wait

i don’t trust the sky to
hold

*

[my son spends two hours at the beach]

my son spends two hours at the beach
collecting body parts of dead crabs
i let him drift down the coast
as long as i can still see him
and i become a thing that sits
and stares at the water

the wind stops and the puget sound
becomes a white mirror
people and birds flick along
like sputtering fuses
my heart an open conduit
of brine and lost time

my son comes and reports
all of his discoveries the sharp footed crab leg
the ancient jaw of an extinct shrimp
a guarding claw or a killing claw
the fossil of a sea scorpion
the mouth pieces that slice

i don’t usually let time go like this
so i slowly gather it pull him from the devonian age
place all the skeletons into a bigger skeleton
he is not yet a being of the clock
so he transverses the river
his feet dappled light in a stream

of light all going toward the sound
and refilling spilling refilling
us transporting our brittle bones
against a current for a flash of
silver through the roots and a hand to
hold on the way back home

*

Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal as a RN in the Seattle area. His most recent books are 500 Hidden Teeth (Meat For Tea), Sapphires on the Graves (Glass Lyre), and dear tiny flowers (Sheila-Na-Gig).

5 untitled poems [from] The Survivor by Jenn Koiter

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~ These untitled poems are from a longer sequence
by Jenn Koiter titled “The Survivor” ~

[from] The Survivor

*

All I remember about your body
in its casket are the thick, black sutures
across the top of your bald head, and
the color of your skin: darkened,
mottled, like you were one big bruise.

Perhaps I should have taken
another look, a longer look,
but how long can anyone stand
before a miracle, and your body
stitched and purpled and emptied, was
a miracle: wine back into water,
water back into the rock.

*

A few books, a few candles, a few tools
in the garage. A few pans in the kitchen,
a few games by the TV. That’s all.
In the bedroom, no pictures to take down, no clutter, just
your smartwatch charging neatly on its stand.
How little clothing there was to take to Goodwill:
four pairs of pants, twelve tee shirts, two suits.
How little of yourself
spilled into the things around you.
How lightly you walked on the earth.

*

Last visit to your house, carrying out your drill, your hoodie, the last food in your fridge.

Last squeeze of the conditioner you said smelled like your grandma.

Last text from one of your friends saying I can call them anytime, they mean it, anytime.

Last conference call with your name still on the agenda, last email from you in my inbox, your last text falling off the bottom of my screen.

Last clean tee shirt you washed for me, whiff of dryer sheet over my face.

Last car wash coupon from the pack you bought me.

Last handful of the sriracha peas you left at my door.

The cashmere scarf I gave you for your birthday, the last thing in the world that smells like you.

*

Your absence is no more like hunger
Than any lack, except that
I feel it in my stomach.
Except that it intrudes,
it nags. It persists.

Except that sometimes
I miss you without noticing, then
notice, like realizing,
ravenous, that I’ve been
hungry for a while now.

No, your absence is not
particularly like hunger, though
I’ve also never been
hungry and also certain
I would never eat again.

*

First morning, first week, first thirteen days

First xanax I took to sleep.

First moment not thinking about you, then thinking about you.

First funny thing I thought, for an instant, that I would tell you later.

First meal at your favorite pizza place, first stop at the taco truck alone.

First drive north on 183 toward your house

First time I saw the fan in your bedroom unmoving.

First day I didn’t cry.

First question I wished I’d asked you

First question I wished you were here to ask.

First night I slept without xanax, almost until dawn.

*

Jenn Koiter’s poems and essays have appeared in Smartish Pace, Barrelhouse, Bateau, perhappened, Ruminate, Rock & Sling, and other journals. Her first book of poetry, So Much of Everything, is forthcoming from Day Eight. She lives in Washington, DC with three gerbils named Sputnik, Cosmo, and Unit.