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.