Matthew Cook
Sonar
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The sun descends the mezzanines of desert sky,
mindlessness allies through conversation.
This and dawn are the most truthful
times of the day, in their fidelity to transition.
Still, the blue room remains dark and the queen
cleans, feigning his mother will visit.
Their words sonar in his brain’s
geodesic dome, her Oh, Honey, I’m just dying
to see you—and his, No, Momma, I’m just—
lying—he regrets, just
barely living,
just barely
anywhere—
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editor(s)
of Cactus Heart who first published this poem.
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The Fossil Wall
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More often now, my father feels
them, pockets of air opening,
half-winking windows exposing
the edges of yellowing circumstance.
The hibernating
awaken slowly in corners
of the present, en route
to extinction, sure
as the short-faced bear’s
short-term existence—
A hand or paw might soon reach
through, rippling the glue of an ordered,
fossil wall and waving
or shaking the bars of my cage.
​
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editor(s)
of Assarcus who first published this poem.
http://siblingrivalrypress.bigcartel.com/product/assaracus-issue-15-a-journal-of-gay-poetry
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The Last Day of Summer
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Soon the reflecting pools will refuse
to do their jobs, the ashes from urns
dissolving clarity, mist lifting to claim the season.
Deep within seepage, a new order rains—
flooding plateaus and drowning leaves.
I keep looking over both bladed shoulders
for anyone following me. The Council
places a wanted ad, carving urgency
into bedrock: Sun God needed, apply
within. So multiple the heroes, each dying
their symbolic death. Mother Jung spares no one—
night is collapsing and a legacy
will feed on its remains.
Dionysus’ replacements arrive
with the autumnal equinox,
evaporating my pool, leaving me displayed.
I pray for Prometheus to return, stealing fire
to bestow it again, though a modern god
might avenge it by neutering—scarring sex,
and branding a warning in flesh.
Grapes will combust from vines
in mid-winter and mountains loosen
into metaphors and verbs re-route every river.
I will for the first time in emergency, reach
for another, seizing merely towels,
absorbent as Egyptian cotton
but far too late to wipe the venom
deadening this rind.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editor(s)
of Assaracus who first published this poem.
http://siblingrivalrypress.bigcartel.com/product/assaracus-issue-15-a-journal-of-gay-poetry
photo by Sherrlyn Borkgren
http://www.borkgrenphoto.net/
