Poetry

 

 

Thom Ward

And Each Day Drops an Anvil on Our Laps

We must remember the old existential dilemma —
don't worry, someone knows how to fix it; worry,
no one knows how to fix it. The sea overwhelms,
the lake confines, blue crease against blue. Men
duel with pistols at dawn, pathetic little paces,
while the advantage goes to women who pick time
and place. They already possess the weapons.
The mind boggles and vichyssoise weeps when
the guests ask for it hot. These lines shed their skins
only to sink in invisible rivers. And so she got loaded
at her friend's baby shower, proving fetal alcohol
syndrome ain't just for kids. And I'm trying to snare
a glimpse of that bird calling from deep woods —
we-need-cha we-need-cha we-need-cha we-need-cha

 

And Objects in the Mirror Are Galaxies Away

Scary what happens when campaign promises are exposed
to oxygen. After Easter we celebrate Wester. He says,
You keep singing like that and you'll be able to afford
the rest of your suit. My accountant and shrink share
the same office building. Can I deduct my depression?
She says, Everyone sees right through his transparency.
A little heat and spring flowers pop like a nail gun
meeting new shingles. Hope isn't the best strategy
for birth control or unilateral military engagement.
On the plain of love beware both hunters and grazers.
The first churning chords of Bach's Mass in B Minor
anticipate quakes that have split the earth. Behind glass,
the felon tells his wife, I've got to die three times
before I get out of here. See you on the other side. Maybe.

 

 

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