Meagan Brothers

that deep good howl

death is a real thing.  it lies in poisoned
lobbies.  rattles in the chest.  drops to its
knees on concrete.  death hovers so
unpoetic in these fractions.  in these
decimal halves.  in these blackened
numbers.  in the gummy fax and the
telephone call.  death is a cathode shadow,
a carbon slip, a needle full of intravenous
metal.  so why not this?  some kind of
life, my head on your chest – let’s not
discriminate – this is not a real thing.
a mouthful of silk and sweat and that
deep good howl with my hands inside
you.  it’s unreal inside you.  unreal that
it ends.  there might be an infinity of us.
copied room by room, stacked like cheap
motel chairs.  these black notes climb in
our pockets and this vicious life bites us
and keeps us baited, waiting.  believing
it will go on.  believing nothing bleak
lurks in our bones, waiting to best us.
waiting to drive us into the ground.  let’s
choose to believe in this.  this is a real
thing.  a little violent strike against the
end.  a fist and a head thrown back and
your mouth open and the sweat the slick
the spread the slow sleep and sweetness,
this is all real the spit the split this is real
this is more like a birth in search of a
midwife to curl my body onto yours to
hear your heartbeat like hearing a muted
wave from someplace beneath the sand.
this is real this is all real and if I can
commit this to memory if I can wrap my
tongue around this lie then I might take
the cure then I might make it true then
it’s not just another desperate move so
forgive me.  forgive me.  it’s just that
every day I am closer to this death
than I am to you.

white

tired of saying things.  tired of not saying.  tired of
white skin.  scrawled cartoon indian on white
notebook paper.  blue steno lines through his crow
feather.  tired of blinking screens.  horse races.
tired of bluegrass sympathy.  tired of the signs.
tired of no signs.  tired of data entry.  tired of the
job.  tired of losing the job when the boss’ daughter
comes home for the summer.  tired of saying things.
tired of not saying.  tired of better or worse.  the
neighbor screaming curses at his wife.  the wife
screaming curses at the dog.  tired of the day.
the commercial break.  tired of the privilege.
this is not a privilege.  tired of the poor.  tired of
the rich.  tired of not being from around here.
tired of not being from the land.  paved walkways
laughing as you forget the names of the trees.
tired of synthetic medicine.  the blinking cursor
that used to be the blinking eye of the horse.
tired of the steno lines.  the blue vein dotting
his arm, drawn back to fire the arrow.  the indian
brave.  the first-grade scrawl.  the mother
so proud she keeps it on the wall of her cubicle.
the cartoon slaughter.  tired of the quiet threats
in the hallways.  the eyes turned down.  they
aren’t sure what you are.  tired of being one
of them.  tired of not being one of them.
tired of saying things.  tired of not saying.