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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@arkanarmada
drawn to me
as the moon on a string
drawn to me
as breath in
drawn to me
as the child
as the wild thing
loved into release
drawn to me
as the original birthday greeting
card clutched to the heart
‘s chest
drawn to me
a sketch sung
with intent to tell
drawn to me
as the moon on a string
you opposite taken hold
back the other end
the other ends
drawn to me
a line between
us
connecting
drawn to me
as breath
in
…andtimeisauniqueandpropernamewrittenincursive
Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth: Selected Poems; “Poem with a Last Tune,”
2 Poems by Shannon Bohnen
twilight years
we had our twilight years, didn’t we? after the teenage matricide years before the accusations set in those eyes that now haunt me sly that hard glance then you throw your cards sky high stuck in your ways disbelieving always seeking some drama that may or may not be there sometimes we don’t want to share our secrets with mother and at this point we’ve become lost to her in hiding no longer confiding no more crying just running away just like before
i’m starting to miss those twilight years only lasted 1 or 2 yeah but how deep was our love the deepest
maybe we’ll get it back mother and daughter
who knows
maybe not
word to me
you might not know this though you know so much you know how the world works how to hotwire a car steal a 6-pack right under their noses make friends with everyone the clerks, the dweebies, dickheads, bloods, etc. they think you’re a righteous dude
just in case i didn’t drive my point home you’re my idol yesterday i thought they were dead my idols nailed to the cross or the stake or pick your religion today, etc.
then you asked me for money and i’m on my knees again
you know the fight the struggle there’s no advice you can give
you say ‘c’est la vie’ and i say,
thanks, mom…
***
Shannon Bohnen lives in the frozen tundra of Minnesota with her husband, Keith. Her first novel is out now, At First Sight, available on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble, and quite possibly your nearest library. Tweet her @w3rdn3rd.
Thanks so much for featuring my poems, @beaboutitpress!
‘Boketto’ is a Japanese word that means “gazing vacantly into the distance without really thinking about anything specific”. Source Source 2
these little things i keep finding hidden betwixt purse flaps a stick of gum a bottle cap leftover cold coffee vitamins peanut butter ice cream a kiss in passing whilst one cook(s) touching butts the sun rises these things i keep safe with me not knowing they're there not always
but sometimes
sometimes knowing
all the same
my purse it expands
I can do dishes with eyes closed
I can do the dishes with my eyes closed,
But I don't,
My husband wouldn't like it,
I practically do the dishes with my eyes closed,
My brain far away,
Ruminating,
I would find all the remnants of food,
With my fingers,
The crick of the sponge finding cracks,
Until I'm scrubbing pure deterioration,
I would even flip the plates over,
And clean their backsides lovingly,
One problem I foresee would be pots,
Maybe pans,
Where does one end and the sink begin?
You can't touch everything at once,
You'd need a third hand,
For boundaries,
Don't want to risk water runoff,
Or spillage
Texts from the Other Side
It turned out to be a lot worse than we thought. This whole endometriosis thing is no joke. We tried to make light of it, but then it grew darker and darker around the house.
Plants died, dishes went undone. She got so weak, she couldn’t lift a thing. And I was no help around the house, I was too busy looking after her. As her button nose refused to rise in that upward jerking motion I’d come to like. Her skin grew waxen and oily to the touch. I had to force her to drink fluids. Any food, and she’d just puke it right back up.
I took her to the hospital and they stuck needles in her arms, tubes down her throat, cameras up you know where. And this is my wife for Chrissakes. Looking like a shish kabob, eerie in the blue glow of the machines.
---
It was fine for a while. Took me about two weeks to come to terms with the fact she wouldn’t be going to bed with me at night… wouldn’t be there to make a mess of the coffee the next day.
I fell back into old routines. Drinking too much. Smoking too much. 5 a.m. conversations about Faulkner and McCarthy, debates about who was the darker writer… that kind of stuff.
It was nice, I admit. Felt sort of like a vacation from myself. Got back to the way things used to be, before we got married, settled down, built a life of responsibility around the tree that grew right through the center of the house.
But when I finally went in to see her, I knew something wasn’t right. I sat with her a few days, played the dutiful husband, and sometimes I’d see a flutter in her eye. There were small indications that she was still alive. I sat there all night with her, even though she was mostly unresponsive. I just wanted her to know I was thinking about her. That I cared. Still do.
They said the pain would be too exquisite, that’s why they induced a coma. It takes a lot out of a person, getting layers of your uterus lasered off. Now we’re on day 30 of Helen in the Hospital and I don’t know how she does it. Today she looks positively radiant under those soft incandescents.
I’ve only been here about 3 days and I’m starting to acquire a film like I’m working my way into my own chrysalis or something. So, I blink my contacts back into place, gather up some of the crunchier flower petals from the windowsill and touch her fingers.
I want so bad to lean in and kiss those hands that pulled at me so eagerly just a few nights before, but I’m afraid to disturb her. Now that she looks peaceful…
I lean in and whisper in her ear, “I’ll be back later. I’m in desperate need of a shave,” I sort of laughed. She hated it when I didn’t shave. And my phone starts vibrating. “Don’t leave me,” the text says. Says it’s from number 12345678910.
I step back because this is a little much. Are the nurses playing tricks on me? I’m sure they’ve got a running tally and staying with a coma patient for 3 days straight must be up there, right? I’m a good guy... Bzzt. “I’m cold,” the next text says.
Now, I’m freaking out. I’m looking all around for some sort of electronic device. I’m starting to believe it. She was always cold. Especially her hands.
I touch her hands and they’re freezing. At that moment I wished I were a doctor so I could check her vital signs and everything, but I knew she was still in there. My Helen. My dark little minstrel. My warrior princess.
In a haze, or maybe I had an aneurysm or a mild seizure or something, but all of a sudden, I smelled a candle burning. Over to her left, near the window. I went over there and started sniffing. I had pretty much transformed at this point, getting down on all fours and sniffing around. Bzzt. “Our anniversary. Remember.” Bzzt. “The bath.” Bzzt. “You left the water on.”
I actually got carried away and hurriedly texted her back, “Wait, is the water on now or do you mean before?” “Before, silly…” Phew, I heaved a sigh of relief.
“And now.” I blinked down at my phone, incredulous. I was at a loss for words for once, which is rare for me. “Well, all righty then,” I’m furiously texting back, fingers flying over the screen like I’m the Flash on a mission to save some damsel in distress. But of course, this is not that kind of story. I’m really just freaked out and pissed and scared all at once, wondering, what the fuck. Is this really happening? I get all cocky. “Oh, yeah, well, if you’re so psychic or whatever, why don’t you just turn off the faucet at home then???” I used way too many question marks on that last text. But by now I’m all excited. It’s like some sordid game I’m playing with myself. Seriously, though, am I dreaming?
I look around the hospital room. Almost forgot she was lying there. I had this vision she was at home or whatever, poking around the house, tidying up, leaving the bath tub running out of spite. Sometimes she got like that. Uppity. Callous. Vengeful.
She started really scaring me sometimes when she got home and she was all super pissed about something at work. Why did she have to take it out on me? I’m her husband. I’ve been nothing but good to her. Gave her her own art space, sacrificed my writing space, and for what? Now she’s in this coma, not five feet from me and I’m “texting” her, apparently, like a crazy ass meth addict or something. Dreaming up schemes.
Wait, but is the bath tub on now???
“YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS” a thousand esses in that last text. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzzzzzztttttt….
I grab my keys off the bedside swivel lunch tray, shove ‘em into my pocket, pivot on my feet towards the door. I’m all amped up now. Every muscle taut with kinetic energy. I’m like a spring on the verge of exploding through this olive drab and depressing ass artwork on the wall, but a thought strikes me and I turn back toward her, finger thrust in her direction. I say aloud, “Now, don’t you go anywhere. I don’t know if I trust you right now”. My eyes all squinty like a shifty raccoon.
Look at me, talking to a coma patient. Who’s the crazy one?
Seriously though, I feel insane.
I leave the hospital, I’m flying down 94, I whip into the driveway, vault up the stairs, and sure enough… the water’s dripping in the bath tub. Dwoop. Dwoop. It’s not exactly on, per se. It’s not gushing forth in unwarranted torrents of otherworldly anguish or whatever. Until I look away.
I reach to tighten the faucet and a rattling begins behind the walls. “This is not good…” I say. The pipes come bursting through the shower tiles in a spray of ceramic dust and yellowing grout.
Something must have knocked me out, because the next thing I know, I’m in a coma. Pushing all of my brain power into sending her electronic messages. Using the currents of microwaves, FM radio signals, whatever I can get ahold of to send her this story.
She does come visit me sometimes, but I feel like for the most part, she’s enjoying her time alone for once. At first she said she was pretty lonely, she was texting me all the time. But you get used to it I guess. Start up 10 projects, finish none, whatever it takes to keep you busy.
She’s getting me back for letting her be a stay-at-home mom… it’s not as easy as it sounds, apparently. And other things… daddy issues or whatever. We’re working through our problems. Finally. Getting it all out. In writing. We were always better at communicating that way, anyway.
“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”
— Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
singin’ like a talkshow guest commercial man
everyone's so competitive i'm starting to feel left out used to be the racehorse with the most endurance
not so quick to jump the gun right out the gate
now i'm the instigator the trigger-puller cheerleader
start out strong left in dust
wistful
The great woods call to me In their shimmering gallows of light Transfixed am I by the crinkling The meeting place of snow and crevice
Rising Slush
what a week of wonders, plutocracies unmistaken, for singular princes, the price you pay, to rediscover dusty corners and old film everything made new again in rising slush
what can be said why speak
i'm going to hell born in the armpit of the universe 'course i stink it's all over me the stench of knowledge done it 6 times 'course you have we can tell you're so attentive to each of us 'course i am can't leave anyone out ...............................................................................................
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Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold, Death’s great black wing scrapes the air, Misery gnaws to the bone. Why then do we not despair? By day, from the surrounding woods, cherries blow summer into town; at night the deep transparent skies glitter with new galaxies. And the miraculous comes so close to the ruined, dirty houses— something not known to anyone at all, but wild in our breast for centuries.
Anna Akhmatova, “Everything is Plundered, Betrayed, Sold,” 1921 (via atreides)
Time is tricky. You have whole months, even years, when nothing changes a speck, when you don’t go anywhere or do anything or think one new thought. And then you can get hit with a day, or an hour, or a half a second when so much happens it’s almost like you got born all over again into some brand-new person you for damn sure never expected to meet.
E.R. Frank, Life Is Funny (via books-n-quotes)
You can't teach metaphor. This guy's a genius. Cormac McCarthy / "Suttree"
no submission guidelines
today
we eat rattlesnakes
for breakfast
with tiny egg worm
slivers
in my pancakes
no submission guidelines
means
no cages
won't you tie me up?
i could use some twine
