by Zach Fishel
Christmas in the Flower Shop
There’s moon
shining from the
flower shop
windows.
Poinsettias reaching
outward with their
fiery poison,
the noise of car horns
celebrating the good
night that’s
everywhere in these
mountains.
Collecting snow on window
sills with cold lucky
quarters. Roasted
pork shoulder
waiting for the family
to pull in the drive,
snow covering the tracks,
as if people never
left or got older.
Learning to be a Man
After the pig fat congealed
in the cast-iron
skillet I’d run behind the
outhouse for the rusty
Folgers can with
my great grandfather’s
clove cigarettes
and brandy flask.
We’d sit and watch the snow
stirring next to the woodstove with fried
eggs and cold bacon
as we waited to
strop the blades to butcher
what the woods allowed us to keep.
Broken Kites
Divinity is better left to broken
children as the caterwaul
of busted rusting bell
knockers falling from the
belfry into hell
rattle the cages just enough
for a small drop of rain
to sizzle on the ground.
Yet we’re inundated with
vapidity insomuch as to
say drowned,
the way it stutters
still as a kite forgotten in a garage
the day someone sang a dirge of sound.
Better than Most
(For Sundin Richards)
St. Jude
was used
eternal
for excuses
against long distances,
fitting as a belt
made of shoe
string.
The tightening
coddled
as the
mornings turned to
dirty rain
or whiskey,
as if there was a fucking
difference.
between moon
light
or sunup
shiners
glowing elliptic.
*****************************************************************************
Zach Fishel is a two time Pushcart Nominee and the Univ. of Toledo Press Fellow. His work has appeared in multiple print and online
journals and NightBallet Press is releasing his first chapbook, “Prayerbook Bouquet” in Early June of 2013.
Art by Sheila Lanham
The Merida Review 