Two Poems
from “!Scrap Of!”
Watchin family matters like episodes b4 urkel comes in infiltrating the cast like a germinating seed Oh now we’re thinkin about seeds small ones rows planted in my tongue in my conch i hear u speaking like the apostles did man give it up the center of all this is uh the still tracer i gotta circle 8 the lawn uh i ate an orange yesterday fell on the floor yeah like rind scraping cracked linoleum n lint & uh i think it was messed with man chlorophyll u know running outta time think we were on the sister again & urkel
& yeah then it was urquelle the robot man fuckin wild two men in one face
so the sister we were talkin bout the sister
& the seeds behind the teeth little bumps
like pregnant like imagine man like a garden inside yr gums freeky deeky listenin 2 genuwine
so the sister so bout the meeting
u had dreamed it at the dentist ya
dreamed it w/ all my teeth named them too
like puppets like luanne that episode like the manger babies i used to watch that like w/ my sister after m*a*s*h b4 we slept kinda crazy man now that i think bout it she loved luanne
ON TUESDAY
waving half-mast flags high on the needlepoint of the building across the street from the fourth floor of the hospital. windows bare, nana’s hospital machine lulling into a faint hum, as a man, unsure of himself, oversized suit, sweat on his lip, drops to a knee, & his baby, newly born in the room next door, face like a baby chick, cooing. & in twenty years, when the hospital floods, & his insurance is replaced by competitions on mr beast’s show, & my mother, lottery ticket in hand, complaining to me about the price of a subway foot long sandwich. it’s $5.99, she says, ridiculous. & while i stumble on a rock, face sifting through a hive of flowers, on the flank of a hill—perhaps with a friend or two—or maybe someone i once missed. & when this friend (or maybe friends) lets it be known that it hasn’t been cold in a while & i remember the last time it snowed is the last time my mother, trash bag over the handle of her wheelchair, pink knitted cap, me running behind her, barefoot, fearless, nip of frostbite & awe; & the carrot she hands me, liver spotted, slightly curved upwards like the smirk the snowman gives me as i plant it on his fat face. & when i retract from the mist, blanket bundled around my chest in this swaddle of grief, i draft an email to my therapist, stare at the ceiling & think about the hyena, headstrong in a pack, crying under the cacti, like the rest of us, when alone at the bar, beers deep, some man playing bowie on the jukebox, singing over the riff a half-second too fast, hands banging on the bartop like war drums. it’s very bad. i wish he’d stop. the last time i cried is when i was twenty-four & got the phone call that my mom died & my roommate running into my room, handing me a rubber duck, asking, face tilted in wonder & unknowing that my world (& all the gravel & my bare feet & spit) is gone like when the esthetician, hovering, red rectangle on my chest, hair ripped clean like a house stripped of copper, & a family once seated at the kitchen table before the second eviction, laughing, ignoring that rent is due on Tuesday & does the duck’s face look fat? an innocent inquiry & now maybe i’m laughing or crying or neither. i delete the email & DoorDash some coffee. the delivery driver’s name is Barbara. she looks like a woman i once knew
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Kevin Latimer is the author of two books. He lives in Philadelphia, PA. He is an editor at bethh.