* scroll down for poems by Elaine Briney and Benjamin Lowenkron
Chris Shipman
Cats and Dogs
Before she decided to move in
her Siberian Husky moved through
my apartment with cautious paws
backing slowly out of every room
my cat was in.
Before she decided to move in
she informed me of the dog’s shedding
and his pink tongue matted with fur
hung dumbly out of his mouth
as proof.
Before she decided to move in
we watched Ghostbusters on my couch
because I wanted to show her
what she’d never seen.
Her dog leapt on our laps
as if he’d been watching too
and didn’t get that it was meant
to be funny.
My cat, a black streak along baseboards,
laughed with us.
Since she’s moved in
the dog fusses back
by lightly biting the cat’s neck
when he thinks no one is looking.
Since she’s moved in
we watch movies neither of us have seen.
Since she’s moved in we fight
about not fighting but not about
fighting yet.
I wonder if she can tell
that while she is asleep
or opening the fridge
or tuning her guitar
I back slowly out of every room.
Snoring through Denial
How many times do I have to tell you
it is not my snoring, but what I dream
that is keeping you up all night long:
hooves of one thousand snorting horses.
So please don’t poke me in the side
and whisper roll over when they stomp.
They disturb the ground burning beneath us
enough to fill all cold mornings with fog,
to shroud the house where our love lives
with the sound of our long journey there.
So plant a thousand kisses on my eyelids
when they flinch; try to dream horseback.
If you must jump from the flowing mane
of our love, wake shivering and sick of me,
even my Irish blood will forget your name,
but tread lightly, for you tread on my dreams.
I turn and you’ve been gone three weeks.
I’ve woke to the sound of my own snoring.
It still whips and lashes in my ears
like the passing gallop of an apocalypse
I have denied myself to hear: an echo
of a tiny voice in an empty apartment.
Eric at the Pool
Summer has him running nowhere. Sun says go
to the pool and back. His six pack of Coors
tall-boys bobs in the water. He hasn’t what
he’s after though wants nothing. The pool cleaner’s
a snaking robot, Eric says. It surfaces and spits
as he goes for more beer. He gets pit stains
along the way. He sees others smother like empty
sidewalks. Such heat rises ghosts. Eric loves
what hate means when streets smoke. He jumps
into the pool. He cannonballs. He drools chlorine.
He’s a snot-nose brat on a noodle raft. He pokes
the sun in the eye. He shrivels as old hands,
waiting to be covered up by the light in the dirt.
How long and white it is like snow in Eric’s head.
Eric’s Roaches
Eric’s been stomping on bugs
in the bathroom again. Every time
the door opens the light from dark
his whole body comes crashing down.
The dull bulb blinks unsure of itself
and this is when I can tell his insides
frown as if they were composed
of roaches— thousands of bugs black
and black and black as silent galaxies
stacked one onto the other. The falling
is now such loud noise. And I can tell
he’s not prepared to be judged by the gods.
One crawls under the rug and disappears.
His head tilts up. Light flickers. Fuck!
Elaine Briney
Ode to Irresponsibility
He worries at the back of the darkest booth, grading papers, making apologies for what he’s spilled on each one. An inky mess tries to explain:
Pineapple. Good. Rephrase? Marinara.
He contains something already soaked through three pages in a red circle and draws a guilty arrow:
I don’t even know what this is.
Homo Ferens
I mark the time by what’s been broken.
Yesterday: Dishes. Tonight: Windows.
But I have faith – you’ll learn
how to unclaw your hands and take
the book without tearing the pages.
Even if you won’t say father or home,
even if you rip every sheet into pieces
and scrabble at the door after I lock you in
you must understand. I’m all you have.
I won’t watch the noise pour
from your throat night after night.
The angriest thing I’ve ever heard.
The most hollow. But my child,
you will be gentle.
Benjamin Lowenkron
Tomi mi Mano
Sunrise Bone River
a hatchet and a covenant
empty pit
ashes on the bank
birds take flight
Preacher sharpens his blade
sparks against whetstone
a requiem horizon
naked he wades
bony waves the rattle of dried bamboo
he slices his wrist his hand drops
the tide whispers
come come come
night slinks to the deep
emaciated bear
mange and nightmare
down the shore from a cypress grove
through the parish’s back roads
Death’s black Mustang swerves over the yellow line squealing tires
break lights
the pines fill with blood
the rising sun
swallows the bear
he lodges in its throat
it hacks up a dream
a dawn with no sun
to drown the stars
like rushing water
Preacher lifts
the dream bloodly wrist
dead hand cigar box
bottom of the pit
veil of fog off the shore
Preacher’s vows fill the trees
the lastshooting star
kisses the river
sunbeam a skeletal hand
‘round Preacher’s neck dawn's fingers
‘round the Parish’s throat
the sky sounds the alarm
first light
a hole in the earth
el entierro
preacher bows to the river
fills his mouth
he sinks to his knees
the wind
like dried rice against his shoulders
morning bells peal
O river my river
I sing your song
your waves
my chest
heave and heave
and never let go.
Windy City
The Green Mill spins like roulette
crimson trumpet
charcoal drums
I’ve come all the way from New Orleans for Al Capone’s gin
simple order:
7 fingers flashed twice
flirt with the tattooed waitress
her laugh steeped in Seagram’s
cold floor our heartbeats loose pills rolling across the tile
this night an empty bottle
who is the lioness
chasing hippos across the fields of Walgreen’s
an echoing roar
one day
all these drugs and all these lovers will drown in Lake Michigan
and we will be free
to sing about the butter dish at The Drake
and the price of a ticket to the Bulls game
thus elevated the grave
rumbles overhead
while we circle the Rosebud in the rain
looking for a parking spot