Lisa Grgas
REPENT
a fantasy an image
her son comes to light
they are nothing alike
his loss a non-issue
token
she will not remember his face
it materializes
[a spectrum of humanness
alien
diaphanous]
to meet its annihilation in her dead-eye
SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE FATHER
[just as there is no significance to a son] there is no significance to a father
who is he but an apparition? a ketch
full of peanut shells painted yellow
painted red
the counselor bobs her head [oh, goddess, and your prescription pad!]
her ballpoint cudgel tucked behind her ear
but, yes, she’s listening
let me tell you instead a true story
the house [evacuated except for his ghost] does not heat well in the winter
its back door kept shut by a wooden plank
each end drilled into the wall
mice frightened by that boy-nimbus that vapor
get in through a hole
in the ceiling fathers
get in through the same spaces
leave the same
fecal traces
IT’S ME, IT’S ME THAT’S WORKING
against you. the boy’s human face
lambent skin an aurora risen on the gray leather
of a wingback chair.
a metal spoon nursed between his lips.
he grinds against the metal, only
the tip of the handle visible.
to dream of teeth, you know,
is an omen. [oh, for an open mouth,
gums empty as a baby’s!]
try to touch his cheek. your fingers
pass through. the dry sockets
scent you with sour
infection. you, my dissonance, my atonal
letdown – wake up