| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
"FIGURE X-71: Suicidal shotgun blast of the head, using a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with No. 6 shot. The contact entrance wound is below the chin. The facial skeleton is fragmented, and tears caused by overstretching are noted on both sides of the mouth and the inner angle of the eyes. The shot partly exited from the top of the head."
I
—Unknown pathology textbook
We were there once,
you and I. It doesn't seem
so long ago we kissed
in that picture's shadow. Your flesh
rough under my hands,
our bodies pressed together, defying
surrounding suicides. I didn't realize
then how soon I'd have to see
your blood seep into my mattress,
drip from your wrists
with their mouths mocking silence
as I willed myself
not to cry
nor to join you. I just sat
and toyed with the wet sheet,
staining my hands in a way
they cannot come clean.
II
Here it is dark.
People with thorazine-eaten eyes
drag themselves down endless corridors
to stare at the boy
whose hands are never clean.
I can do nothing
but play cards and read,
leaving trails and smears
on everything I touch. The guards
on wing two—which is where
they say I am—are always smiling,
willing to chat about the weather
or the latest Dean Koontz novel. In here
I can read fiction, and once in a while
a poem or two. They let me keep
my Hayden Carruth, but Carver, they said,
was too depressing. Philosophy, of course,
was out. You'd sooner find electroshock
than Georges Bataille in these modern facilities.
Pump them full of Prozac to keep them happy.
Maybe then they won't write.
III
I sleep on the floor
at night, but each morning
when I awaken I dip
my hands in the blood
you left deep in my mattress,
a ritual. They put
a violent one here last week by mistake.
He saw my bloody hands
and cackled the communion rite
left a crescent-shaped ring of purple
molar bruises
before the smiling guards could pull him off.
Everyone apologized, and Thomas,
the violent one, disappeared.
They must have corrected their paperwork
and sent him to wing eight.
I miss Thomas—forgive me
for lapsing into vagueness here. I feel,
in some way, he recognized me.
IV
Every day I write you a letter. Is it strange
to write letters to the dead? Forgive me
for having no illusions. You could not be otherwise.
Dear this, dear that, how are you. It's the only kind
of writing I let them see, and they say
I've improved enough
to go to wing one next week. Wing one
is what people see when they come here,
with the little bungalows
for the clients, the gym, the laundry facilities.
This means I'll be ready
to leave in a month or so,
and my hands will be clean, and I can get
free Prozac from 57 drugstores
in my area alone. I forgot to mention to the doctor
I haven't been taking them. If I did,
they might send me to wing four.
V
In my little bungalow
I have all the niceties—utensils,
regular clothes, a private shower.
They gave me a disposable razor.
Soon, I'll hand you these red letters.
2-15-94
R1:20May1997
Robert P. Beveridge (Long Lost... XTERMINAL)
AWAKE
Michaela danced.
With the spirit of him inside, she entertained the rest.
She didn't want to see them cry
So she whirled, felt daddy within.
These are love tears, Mommy said.
Aunt Abby braided her hair
Mee-maw pinned up Michaela's drawings
Uncle Rusty stuck out his tongue
Cousin Cameron stayed away
And Michaela danced
On the altar, on the chancel
Twisting in her capris
Lively and smart
Mom there to josh her
Asking her to spell out the alphabet with her bottom
And when Michaela wouldn't
Mommy made the 'J'—a big full swing
And a hop in the air
for the dot...
With the spirit of him inside, she entertained the rest.
Gloria Miller (SWIKMILLER)
CRY ME ALONG THE SHORE
Cry me along the shore where my dream is gullfood,
Watch me totter on the boulevard of plywood
I still see Roger Maris in mind's eye while walking here,
Tanks converging on Berlin,
The men of Playa Giron giving up the ghost
Only the thud of sad feet past the empty condo tower,
Bubbly screams from the pit of time
Running for the train at absurd Wonderland,
Flying in a circle ever tighter are my thoughts,
I become my own footnote
Harvey Novack (YankeeDog)
More about the IBPC...
Archive of poems entered from About Poetry Forum
