Hangman Days
Unbearable, the world that broke into time.
Unbearable, the just-born certainty of distance.
……………………………………………………………–Susan Stewart
All I want
is to be told
………………………..take your time
that the line
isn’t dead
……………..instead as soft
…………….& malleable as
the forests I hide
beneath my tongue
that objects
are no closer
than they appear
dead dogs
…………….hospital bills
………………………..slowing senses
………………………..it’s not that I don’t
………………………..look up at the sky
………………………..& realize what it
………………………..means to be a part
………………………..of this world
I know ropes will eventually loop
down in their oval curiosity & croon
our names……….that we will….having
drunk too much oblige their siren-
song laughing our way into the sky as
the sand bags
………………………..plummet past us……..winking
but for now
what is life but a cat on the lap
a cup of tea………………..& the absolutely
……………………………………devastating realization that
……………………………………one day you will be gone
…………….or that I in the dutiful game
…of hangman days will sail into the ether
there is nothing to show for this pleading
…………….just let me rest awhile…………everything
…………………………………………………………….is so small
in the distance
………………………..I can almost hear you laughing
_____
All That Memory Gifts
In the twelfth year
since my father’s body
was wheeled into a furnace
& shoveled out into a bag
I am preparing dinner
in a nearly silent kitchen
a sprig of rosemary between
my fingers…….as I slide fragrant
………………………needles into a pan
trying so badly
to remember the man that
capsized my world with his
quick decline & quicker ghost
yet as I am bombarded with
the herbaceous green…..the
pungent aroma of the Adriatic
seaside on the first warm
day of the year
………………………all that comes to mind
…………….is a time my father ate
a sandwich in the kitchen
some strange creation
where he combined
the sweet sop of
applesauce with
the salt-sour crunch
of pickle
I am sure I ate
countless meals
with this man
& yet this is all
that memory gifts
& what a gift it is
a man & his sandwich
brought back to life
as rosemary cries
itself to sleep in a
lake of butter
_____
On My Twenty-Ninth I Awake
with broken teeth & saucers
for eyes
……………………full of milk &
spilling
……………………over into what is either
the twenty-eighth which came
before
……………………or the thirtieth which
lies ahead
………………………….calendars have never been
………………………….my strong suit
in fact
……………………I have never even owned
…………………………..a suit of my own
life is a slow relic of hand-me-down
luck
……………………leftover from those kind enough
to take pity
…………………………..you must tell no one
……………….you can keep a secret
can’t you?
I am laughing
…………………………..can’t you tell?
………………………………………………..By highlighting it
…………………………..I have removed
………………..any trace of joy
……………….& ruined through
performance
this stretching on of time……………all the milk
…………………………………….spilled & crying angrily
at big-bumbling me who was asleep
enough not to realize the tipping point
for the sky is so beautiful
……………………the way it sparkles with
……………………………………..broken smile &
underneath the sea of cream
are moonstones
………………………….the finest you’ve ever seen
imagine that
………………………….precious stones that glow
………………………….of night’s perpetual bulb
I have stolen them &
…………………………………..replaced your eyes while sleeping
so that come your thirtieth
…………………………………..be that ahead of or behind you
you might finally see the world in all its wonder
……………………………………………………………..the way I do
_____
Spare Parts Come Friday
after Dmitri Prigov
today I have nothing worth saying
it is Thursday again & as I considered
the first line I……………too……..was already exhausted
but you’re still here reading
so I will do my best to entertain you
but you must cut off my hands first
to keep them away from my many wants
………………………….& preferably at the wrist
a quick flick to paint the world
a whole new indescribable shade
(except of course for the equally handless)
or……………………….what might be even more fun
I will lie on my side while you pour cement
into each of my ears
……………………………………..the only problem being
that……………….of course………I will still be able to hear
my own blood & breath running around
in fact……………..why don’t you try to drug me
without me noticing sometime before tonight
but understand……………….I will be on guard
so you must rely on your wits
that way I can call off the day
with its hot-breathed hunger
& its too-close-for-comfort
lip licking
just promise that once I am out
you will at least have the courtesy
to steal my wallet & sell my phone
what am I……..after all…….but spare parts
a seed spit in a watermelon patch that grows
into a spitting young man so impressively incapable
& if you’d be so kind………………………………..be sure
that wherever I so gracefully lose consciousness
that I am protected from the sun
so I might have a better chance come Friday
BIO
Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently based in southern China. His poetry can be found in Thin Air Magazine, Poetry Lab Shanghai, New World Writing, and is forthcoming from Welter Magazine and Poet Lore.
