Settling my hand on a bur oak’s bare chest. Flailing distantly for the giving reach and feeling encouragement from limestone crevices beneath - I leap. Hints of living where fish swarm in silver darts for lunch and never hunger. She holds enough. They have two children in thick, wool hats. A transparent bond below a howling dog’s wounded voice caroling softly across the bristling stones.
Sometimes, if only cherries had a kiss. Sprouting endearing pestilence. Most, yes - alright - all of the time, I’d rather have lemons’ early dew.
in the soft torrential curls that
pool at the base
in that fresh morning milk
comes the caustic awakening
sonrojo en su sonrisa
the same flavor as sunrise
I’d rather tener palos para construir una cabaña. I’d like you to scratch my chest, claw at the limbs, burn from the roots, and watch my fruit fall.
I am not the carbon copy, but rather the rough suffocating diamonds. In these dank caves, nothing comes through - signals upon waves upon kilojoules of pixels. Time to turn off the news.
Listening to your voice, I wonder how many beautiful poems I’ve hated listening in mine.
No dogs on the bridge. No bikes either, for that matter. But definitely no dogs without leashes. That’s how they get you: you say, dogs without leashes, we can cross that bridge when we get there. All of a sudden, you can’t cross with the dog, so, you ditch the leash and boom, you’ve violated the sacred oath. No dogs without leashes.
Elt tripped over his thoughts stepping into the light, swinging against the weight of his gun. The matte black Impala soaked in afternoon sun while waiting for backwoods dust to settle. The thick pine wood isolated the road in a semi-circle around them. Elt didn’t think he needed the piece, but it made him feel good – powerful.
“Even when we go to the fucking McDonald’s, he’s ordering oatmeal.” Mosely didn’t retort, just grunted back at Elt’s whining. Elt always did the talking. Mosely knew these jobs made Elt nervous. Mosely liked his job. He pretended Elt’s monologues beset him, but despite the squealing pitch, Elt could find humor in the long pauses of their job that gave Elt the creeps. Elt figured it didn’t bother him, but never tempted fate over the line.
“I mean who does that? Pretentious prick.”
Elt eyed the meadow between the trees and the woods suspiciously. He flicked the safety of his piece on and off, then stopped when he got nervous that he’d lost track of where he left off.
“Alright, flip for it?” Elt tried not to sound too casual. Mosely took the bait. He left his wide frame straight on as he turned to side eye Elt. Heat from the Impala filled the space between them. That’s the closest Elt got to confirmation. He called “tails” on the quarter pinging through the air.
He smacked the quarter over and allowed himself a slanted smile, “I win.” Again, he timbered his voice to stay even. If he knew one thing from jail that stayed true no matter what, don’t piss off the big guy. Especially when you only made it up to 180 pounds soaking wet. Mostly grease.
Mosely grunted and uncocked the gun he had resting at his hip. If it wasn’t the cops, it was the farmers. If it wasn’t the farmers, it was Elt’s pale, pretty face and screeching to ruin a good job. Not sadness, but something relative to Mosely, pagned a bit at the thought of the loss.
“Here lies a man
who laughed at everything,”
a speckled, gray stone declared.
The name “Ulta Mareis”
sunk into its brow.
“Even his own pain,”
a woeful voice agreed.
Faceless and gowned in black,
uproarious laughter broke through
as they dropped their flowers.
Loudest and highest of all,
when the last rose
found its resting place;
Ulta Mareis gave his last laugh.