convalescence
we drink bodies:
gaze or shuffle,
barged chest or bow,
and gush head:
fondness or withdrawal
disdain or respect
and keep nothing inside
like rolled toothpaste
we’re empty
between these moments
when smiles and fangs
outshine loneliness
we spew out desires
beyond our mind's sink,
feeling sick and weak,
rabid and mean,
piggish yet clean
though foibles itch slightly
a kernel between the teeth
everyone sees
but no one speaks of
gifts shyly lick others’ feet
a dogged fatigue
everyone speaks of
but no one can be
this morning in silence
cannot be trusted
without the pat or lashing
from a distant human being
Portrait
my father's portrait
has yet to be mounted.
he can wear livery in the hall
buried beneath guests’ coats
of blushes and gums
or rags in the attic
like obsolescent records
he can be a toy flag
waggled on holidays
or on the moon, a stiff
handkerchief in the suit
of a nation
he can be a hare chased down
and disemboweled by wolves,
employers, creditors, and spouse,
or he can be the wolf gnawing
its own winter hide
he can be the war letters
or investment charts,
the incandescent blooms in my life
or the ashen dirt,
the involuntary chuckle or tic
the creek or the cliff
map or bush
engine or drift
the writing or the stillness
he can be all these in different moments
but this grief has narrowed me
to dimples or wrinkles
on his face.
the hazing
in starless parks the poets gather
before some were jerking birdseed to impregnate a line
but now’s the fun part: a new pledge marches
from the bleachers of roads
and wants to deke through a verse
“Please step forth and shackle on your best frown
so children scamper from you in daylight
find a raving love – drop her quick and mourn long
you can’t guzzle sap or pollen, here’s the hard stuff
be a plumber and write about the trinkets
you dislodge
meet your friends in ER’s
read the fresh Bible and dramatic Dictionary
before any other works
live one month with the mannerisms of a dog
then hide yourself like a tick on that dog
slither acid for better omniscience and metaphors
spraypaint each sensible school
with a cadenced fuse
then come back to this park
to see if we’re still here.”
Incantation
Our placards of loneliness
cannot make haggard
any quiet daisies
slipped into letters
Nicholas Matthews is in his fifth year of undergraduate psychology at Ryerson University.
