January 2024
Bio Note: My writing appears in 44 literary reviews. and my two books of poems, Lyrical Years and What I Meant to Say Was... were published by Kelsay Press, and Impspired Press, respectively. My graphic memoir My Life in Fish: One Scientist’s Journey, also was published by Impspired. All three are available on Amazon.
These Days
“Of blessed memory” is a phrase I’m using way too much—as too many, of too many generations are passing. Millennia of Jewish life task us with this phrase, when the dark horseman chases down one more friend, one more relative, one more former lover, or friend’s former lover. As a young man, this seemed trite as velour track suits and leg warmers— a silhouette of a rite, sans content, like the hollow chrysalis from a monarch butterfly I found October fifteenth. But now it’s pandemic-life, not a trio of days go by that I don’t grace someone with this blessing, now a great comfort—though I’m not exactly sure why? Loss always is present, like the scab that takes so long to heal, because picking at it is a cheap ecstasy. But “of blessed memory” is a circular shape linking dead and alive. It is warm milk at 2 AM—a solace that tall or short, quiet or loud, kind or selfish, we remain engraved on both heart and stone.
Chicken Truck
It’s 10:37 July 29th, thermometer about to shatter, now 98—the heat index, too abstract to grasp on this oven rack of a day. I’m driving two-lane GA 106, occasionally reaching 45 mph, because I’m stuck behind a chicken truck. 32 rows of cages stacked eight deep. The white-feathered broilers lay like gobs of hot mayo tossed onto the rusted cage bottoms, and if my wife were here, I would bet on which bird will next submerge in the wave of frustration, and snap-peck its neighbor. An ammonia cologne trails the truck, it’s strong enough to unearth the dead, then rebury them in a single whoosh. But this is a “when life gives you lemons…” moment, and it’s impossible to pass, visibility choppy and curled back upon itself. Some birds have shat themselves, having lost all avian-esteem, and although “bird-brained” is an insult, somehow they wear an expression that says “we know where we’re headed.” I hate factory chicken but it’s cheap protein, so I buy free-range birds, though my veterinarian daughter says the term lacks legal substance. At least their cage doors must be open. Making lemonade, I fall back 100 feet, just beyond the last brown gyre of stench, and think about the shower awaiting at my destination.
©2024 Gary Grossman
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL