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July 20, 2017 | Poetry

Two Poems

Vincent Poturica

Two Poems photo

Minivan

The ants march past the garage
you tattooed with a hammer.
Han Shan wrote his poems on
the walls of caves. When I read
them, I understand why my dad
never removed his heart. (He did
not want it to be eaten.) Pillows,
pigeons, stop signs. You talk
to them like your dad talked
to telephone wires. Once upon
a time you stole cigarettes and
brought them to his cardboard bed
behind the Taco Bell on 7th
until his deportation to Durango
where he froze to death. You
remind me It’s too easy to love.
Angela touches my hair. To come
faster, she pretends to be a dog.
Her earrings spin in frantic circles
while upstairs Marco sings about
his missing sock. Your public defender
still forgets your name. Your ex-wife
still knits your sweaters. (You’re
wearing the red one with the little
black hearts.) The walls are gone.
The stars are out of breath. I can see
Marco’s sweating tumbler of tequila
and the pelicans gathering around
a dying seal. Through the hole in
your Reeboks I contemplate our future.
Dandelions and bounced checks. Burned
curtains and a rope to hang ourselves
from heaven. You gave all your
power to God because what the fuck?
Also, because your daughter wants
a minivan. She says all the dads
who coach soccer have them.
It’s midnight. It’s a quarter past three.
I just discovered that blue and yellow
crayons taste exactly the same.

Chicken Strips

on mushrooms once Tom grew
a second head and my face
became my dad’s (before that

Navy fucker wrapped his little
sister around the eucalyptus
with a Jeep from the base)

we ate apples on the bridge
while Tom talked about how
moments become biographies

a semi swerved over a bunny
and I watched the snow until
I knew it couldn’t save us

later at a party I couldn’t stop
laughing at the chicken strips
their long breaded corpses

waiting to be eaten by strangers
on a blue plastic plate
a woman led me to a room

with blue walls bordered
with drawings of videotapes
she looked like a drawing

of Kafka with ears made of wood
she hugged me like a version
of fate that I haven’t known since

image: Aaron Burch


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