DESERVING & HUMANE
I’ve lived a charmed life. The tents in corners.
The men on motorcycles. War of their chins. War in our public
parks.
The only wild left is my own eyes. How I must
wield them. The story of Verve: a wolf sold as “husky” slips out
of the gift
box
and into the neighbourhood. My body used to be a detector
for dry places. Now, the mouth
of Verve.
Verve prowls up the hill to a foreclosed mansion. Pink runts
curl like portholes no one knows to look through. The story
of Verve, his skin-breaking nip. Every time
my
hips crack, the herd raises their heads. It bothers you,
forgetting time is a knife to the head
or
appendages.
Someone leaves a steak on the stoop. I’m astonished how fast
I grow. The story
of Verve is a lesson in Watch Your Angles.
Ana
Mendieta introduces me to bikers that will kill for me,
a child. Origin of leather. Verve sees your collar. Verve sees
unopened cans in the foyer. Verve laps dust from the puckered
jacuzzi. If I were an heir, I’d cut many
ribbons. Instead, are the bikers still here
are the bikers still herearethebikersstillhere?
On
the Red Line, Sir Adam beckons with a swill.
The story of Verve and the neighbour’s mauled lapdog.
Sir Adam confuses me for something with sheep herding stock
or else a Sotheby’s listing. As a man,
I drip everywhere I go.
Your bed, the side of your cheek, your chin. The
story
of Verve and the charity of brushing his fur and returning him to the wild.
What the Cadillac is For
She calls from my father’s house asking for a washcloth I used to leave trails
of soot. Cooperation means behaviour: a black snake
in the garage A drink A boy under spurs I want to admit most
to you yet I heard dignity is glass lodged in my foot and I shouldn’t loosen it lest
some unknown splash Lest spring Lest She is wondering about something
to clean herself with The drink The boy The cedar on the thawing bank
of the Potomac That makes for good kindling I want to admit everything
to you I used to believe I lived on the tongue of the Hoover dam and I needed
to imagine an alley full of kittens with twisted necks to summon water back
through me Her son and his souped up car Where he takes it Facts
feel flexible working from inside the tent She needs to keep hooking
a nail into this starved dirt Needs to know if the bald nest or famine came
first and will I bring a washcloth I want to worm into shapes before you
Every time I clean dishes I promise g-d I’d eat the waterlogged
scraps if it could save you from unbearable pain. Soft tree
she cannot even start to take down Her son’s “son” and the little night of my face
Bela Koschalk is a writer based in Chicago, Illinois. Their poetry has been recognized by the Poetry Society of America. They have writing featured in Narrative Magazine, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Denver Quarterly, CutBank, and elsewhere.