THE CURDLE OF FOAM ALWAYS SUBMITS
Worth more with fermentation
& lit blue below the shuffling feet,
the garden of useless particles
creeps the party like a storm
without lightning, clinging
to the pant cuffs, begging
to be taken towards the lawn,
towards the blades of parsing.
All words are church to the nothing
below our ankles. Began to begin
the party, soap, moving water,
swallowing all flashing lights,
I begin to think about my own body,
as I watch the continuing fold
& unfold of the stomped mist
& though no thoughts of trade
rest long in my mind, I admire
the humanity of such a failing thing.
NO RESCUE NEEDED
The half-eaten
sandwich has no intention
of being tossed
or wholly eaten
& my feet appear in the sun
to have little blonde hairs
reaching to the trees,
bending back down
in a music-less dance.
This poem is bored
& lovely. Wind?
My daughter runs the yard,
yelling “Slide!” At the top
step, waiting for me
to count to three. I adjust
to the casual glee of it.
“3…2…1” She stuck the landing.
THE KILL, THE SOUP
Cleared traps, Emily
never allowed them open,
but oh, how those carrots
called out to avoid
the fast boil, the herbs
& lentil bastards.
Slow with her elbow,
the withering orange hardened
with a nice, crisp flavor.
WE WERE NOT AS OLD AS WE ARE NOW
We had no betters then, on Meadwell Ct., in our skinny apartment, with the neighbors that played only Spanish opera, and would have parties until three in the morning, until I asked them to stop, and they punched me in the right eye. We had no betters then, only scared writing, a lot of drinking, and sex like I imagine bandits had in the 1930’s, I was still so sure we might not get married, that you might leave me because at that point I wasn’t much more than a cute drunk who was missing a French requirement to get his Masters. We had no betters then, only a dog with one blue eye and one brown eye that was so afraid of cigarettes that he would run from a candle on the television. We had no better then, only snowstorms and Greek food from Anna’s, only cider with full bottles of Kentucky Tavern in it, and beers in the fridge in case they called off two days of school. We had no betters then, only planning for a future, only talking about it in abstract, like it was a story we were telling each other. We had no betters then, and we mostly ate nachos and fries from a place called Chubby’s, and when our parents would visit with their many, many questions, we would finagle a trip to the seafood place that liked to fry everything, including pickles. We had no betters then, we had each other then, and we have found no better since then.
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Darren C. Demaree is living in Columbus, OH with his wife and daughter. He is the recipient of two Pushcart Prize nominations, and his first full collection, tentatively entitled “As We Refer To Our Bodies” will be published by 8th House Publishing this Fall.
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