EVICTED
There’s a slowness to packing boxes
when there’s nowhere to take them.
It’s the deliberation that surrounds
every item of clothing
as it’s neatly folded,
placed gently with the others.
With the child, there’s an even
greater sluggishness when it
comes to the dolls and stuffed animals,
an unwillingness even
for fear that
there won’t be enough room
to fit them all.
For haste in that apartment house,
you’d need to look to
the landlord’s first floor apartment,
the tapping of his fingers on the kitchen table,
like tiny impatient jackhammers.
For mother and child,
the sidewalk awaits.
It’s both leisurely and brisk…
and indifferent,
which is not a speed at all.
KISS AND MAKE UP, THE LATEST ITERATION
Your words slap my face around.
Now you have me where you want me –
an effigy of everything you hate.
My response is a prison-riot
of old angers.
Pain doesn’t travel well
so hurting others is our go-to.
We learned it from our parents.
We were taught it in school.
To be cruel is a mega-aspirin,
a vein-load of morphine.
But we love each other.
Our harshness knows this.
Our rages are intrinsically aware.
So our voices soften.
Red cheeks whiten.
Flaming eyes are doused by tears.
Then it’s kiss and makeup time.
Our mouths are like tunnels in a mountainside.
Tongues collide
but there’s little collateral damage.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. His latest books Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. He has upcoming work in Rush, Spotlong Review and Trampoline.
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