Bio Note: I am an online tutor and custodian in Omaha, Nebraska. I have won 3 Academy of American Poets awards, publishing in The Lyric, Blue Unicorn, Ragazine, and elsewhere.
when I know I must rise to package meat that brings on carpal tunnel and knee replacement I think of an old woman creviced wearing a scarf a peasant gleaning she bends like a soggy twig feeling dread as I do sick to the stone she's inside my chest coughing she is my czech great grand- mother baba from my mother's photo she bundles miles of hay she drips gray ennui
Words Reflected In His Glasses
Marquitos was glad he had written his poems. He cried reading them at night when he was worn down by the day of its black brutal gazes and soul-whittlings. He wrote of tattoos and purple roses, of bruises, of wounds that spoke Aramaic, of ghosts with phosphorescent rings of green and yellow around their necks. The planets gathered around the earth to hear him recite them before his PC screen. They listened intensely, like children to a story of a lost adorable animal. They wept and froze on their axes until they only heard the music within the words and were lost to all structure of the stanzas. Even the earth slowed its spin. Marquitos believed the words made him, that they constructed the room he was in, that they decided if something was beautiful or ugly. His poem called “Supermoon” made him shine like diamonds, like the stars. His words made the stars there, released the planets to their old orbits, and he dreamed of blooms and storms.
©2023 Marc Darnell
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