[when i do not write]
when i do not write
my body turns into a wordless sore
plump and burgeoning
filled with fluid and yellow sleep
the news i was supposed to report
covers the head with cruel snow
unverbed and wet–
my feet catastrophes–
my organs buried–
quiet grandfathers
in dark tuxedos
[gather my cellophane call to the harpies]
gather my cellophane call to the harpies
erase the ropes stir the poison in the mezzanine
police are laughing monks
call to the winged death
i am a seed hourglass red
i spin guns i can’t see
too many ghosts are captured here
their lips are bullets blood pills
take me to the ER i am leaking
i have forgotten to breathe
[the forgotten things are still alive under the soil]
the forgotten things are still alive under the soil i take out the bee larvae and suck the honey from each blistered head there is a buzzing inside my mouth i have done nothing but eat my own body a coral spine a fungal carotid along the chest i haven’t remembered how to swim inside myself i haven’t forgotten how to drown inside the wide dry air my eyes bees angered by the intrusion my fingers blunt sticky wombs i can’t bring the whole corpse back to the shore it is too heavy and the children have been feeding again the words which make my breathing definable are also curses medicine poison and lymph i have mixed them into a paste that the young love to lick i am a father of broken things but i nurture them by singing psalms backwards in a whorl of soap washed and slippery i am not any cleaner nor any more civilized my army is seething under our beds the forgotten things are still alive under the soil
Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal as a RN in the Seattle area. His most recent books of poetry are Sapphires on the Graves (Glass Lyre, 2024), 500 Hidden Teeth (Meat For Tea, 2024), and dear tiny flowers (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2025). More can be found @ ferrypoetry.com.