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Matt Morris :: Three poems

 

Epilogue IX
 

have I fallen edwin began
although fallen may be inaccurate
if it conjures in the mind’s 

eye a halcyon sky-blue feather
floating against bleached
& bloated clouds reminiscent of 

brow furrowed he paused
to flip through a handy
book then added 

constable’s study of clouds
oil & canvas 1822
with no intimation to its elusive 

source that proverbial bird
of song & story a symbol
of happiness having just flitted by 

warbling subtly camouflaged
into your disfavor
would it be more precise to ask 

edwin uncertain he’d made
his point clear posited
have I plummeted or perhaps 

plunged both indicating a rapid
steep often violent descent
as if I were sporting concrete 

sneakers among the silt bog
moss duckweed assorted plastic
handguns paper ballots tolkien                       

rings carp a whirlpool
washer-dryer combo rusted
hulls & skeletal 

remains in your esteem
that said edwin reflected no more        
upon the metaphorical 

water that he foundered
under but upon corrina
eyes deep as rivers & long 

brown lashes like scythes 
that struck him
down with every flutter 

 

 

Shortly Thereafter

your fiancé called to say
he was on his way
over you want anything
yes you said ice cream 

which seemed smart at first
since he’d have to stop somewhere
while on the other hand ice               
cream melts so he might hurry           

either way I was
out the door down a dim flight
of steps & behind
the wheel of my car sitting 

in front of your apartment
turning the damn key             
to turn the motor over
but it wouldn’t start 

it just sputtered uh uh uh
as if trying to come up
with a good excuse
that never once mentioned love

  

 

Sunday Afternoon

when the doorbell rings
it’s mr partlow
his bibbed dungarees
patched & half-undone
standing on the stoop
wanting to borrow
my dad’s parasol
such a dainty thing
seems better suited
for frilly shoulders                             
of figures strolling
through the park on the
island of la grande
jatte than on his
beery mustachioed
lips does he mean um-
brella parasol                                                 
he repeats your dad
said I could use his
can he see the wood                                       
handle of dad’s old
bumbershoot jutting
out of the stand behind
the door a question
mark punctuating
my speechless reply
parasol he says
slowly parasol
he insists louder
I’m building a deck
for my house he starts                       
to explain then turns
to leave power saw
sunlight cutting through
murky clouds I ask
did you say power
saw yes damnit he
sighs & albeit
briefly smiles since I
really don’t know where
dad keeps anything

 

 

 

Matt Morris is the author of Nearing Narcoma, selected by Joy Harjo as winner of the Main Street Rag Poetry Award, and Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand, published by Knut House Press.  His poems have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, for which he has received multiple award nominations, including the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

 

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where is the river :: a poetry experiment is a bi-monthly poetry journal open to a variety of aesthetics, forms and experiences, with a preference towards showcasing work by emerging writers. There is no single path, nor any single way. Founded in September 2017. Edited by Kiefer JD Logan.