Samo je Početak
Already there is a man
in my mouth waiting
to lay eggs in my throat
& tend to them until
they hatch
waiting
to pull any golden thread
that might echo the pipes
I’ve taught the wind to
love so much
already we are destined
for what awaits us as
time plucks the petals
your mother & mine
know this too well
as our fathers are injured
or disappearing in
hospital beds
only the ghost of a sheet
remains or a scar
that aches too often
already my resentment
hardens in my lifelines
narrowing the pathways
that move hopes & dreams
throughout my body
while your anger
slowly lumps into
breast tissue that
bothers you monthly
samo je početak
the possibility lingers
that the golden hour
has moved past us
that the war your father fought
& the sickness of my own
pave the way before us
waiting in ambush
a tiger with the scent
of blood in the air
waiting with widened eyes
~
Maladies in Present-Continuous Tense
Of all things this is what
I’ve chosen to tell you about the world
-Norman Dubie
in the cool dark
of morning entangled
in sheets I dream
the tongue my mother
gave me has switched
places with my other-mother’s
& there I was required
to write ten sentences in English
to prove my inner-understanding
of present-continuous tense
I am writing about my dreams again
because the state of my nation is
shambling in the eaves of madmen who
are branching off of the same tree &
I am planting Datura in my garden
so as to always have one foot in
the grave I am not saying
I would simply that
the people I know are dying
& how long before my name
is next on the list of unspeakable
vanishings & maladies
are wrapping me in dreams about
being lost in a cityscape unable
to find my way home when
suddenly the night is leaking
all over everything while the stars
have begun construction with jackhammers
on the foundation of my sanity & if this is losing
then may I bow out with enough grace
to summon one last glory glory hallelujah
for the temple is crumbling & there is
desert before us as far as the eyes can
will themselves without succumbing to despair
I have & will continue to despair
for the home that once was
I will beg on my knees
for these maladies
to unseat this worry
& instead break
the morning
with sweat
~
The Dog Has Learned to Talk
the way the sky
has learned the sun
& the clouds a language
of falling water
how wondrous
unbelievable
outrageous even
that our vocal chords
make the music of
the people here
that we
with our Cerberus-tongues
might grow another
what else is to be
expected of our lazy kind
an over-thick waist
& minds in shadow
no we lap at
whatever music flows
from the mouths
around us
echoes in dance of the
upturned roofs of
this ancient cityscape
from whatever howls
for want of connection
we’ve learned to walk
in dance to point
with our paws
we are of the streets
wild & glad
for even the slightest
sound of attention so let us bow
& wretch our vocal chords
for some bewildering mimicry
simple requests:
what is the measure word
for being taken aback?
What shape must we make
with our vocal chords to be
more than a talking dog?
~
Mother Hurt Like a Typhoon
wake to rain
in the endless
days of typhoon
tears
another season
to wonder about the
birds who are finally
singing again
no men brandishing
jackhammers like
machine guns
this morning the pounding
in my skull comes from
the wonder of suffering
our mothers’ have endured
in the stifling heat of also
tender four letter thing
so easily reduced to three
that must then move through
us like a river splitting its head
in the clouds coming down
in streams
I am cold
from behind
but you turn
to hold me
my sweet
big spoon
eyes closed
the black back
of my eyelids
plays fractal
orchestra &
wonder how
far through
us these rivers
run to get away
from their hurt we-are-our-mothers
we-are-not-our-mothers
easy petals pulled as if
we might consider our
way out of the reality
that the hurt they’ve
known has carved us
river-bed smooth
hoping we can ebb
into the endless grace
of never having to know
~
As Good As Bread
Almić
you are
as good
as bread
I wake in the night
& my mouth waters
for you
I smell you
& the entire world
disappears
there is nothing
as simple as
how good
you are
& when you rise
my day is better
& when you don’t
calm is the sea
of my joy
because
you are
though we inhabit
a breadless land
we will someday
return to the hills
where bread is
had at every meal
where being
as good as bread
is understood by all
where your mother
never throws bread
away
even if
there is a new
loaf in hand
my love
you are
as good
as bread
the only one
I ever truly
hunger for
~
Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently existing in the great humidity that is southern China. His poetry can be found in Thin Air Magazine, The Rush, Dovecote Magazine, Poetry Lab Shanghai, The Decadent Review, Fearsome Critters Magazine, and in Art in the Time of COVID-19 from San Fedele Press. When he is not writing, he enjoys making friends with the other strays.
published in