Issue 16, March 1998
Michael McNeilley - Four Poems
what is left
after the trigger
meets the thumb
after the primary
sharp report
the clicking of heels
running in the hallway
the questions before
and after the sirens
the alarm on the
bedside table
ringing down behind
the locked door
my son walks
across the lake
I can see him clearly
outside the window
in bright golden
January sunshine
gulls circle him
a cloud of white
he juggles fish
they catch them
his smile
a sousa march
with soaring
picollos
I have things to do
I should wake
up I don't
want to
money in the bank
in the room
nothing is happening
just me and the unblinking
blue screen
it's too easy to think
since there is nothing
there will always
be nothing
but outside my window
is an empty bird feeder
tilted on its pole
dripping rain
and I write birdseed
on a scrap of paper
on a day I thought I had
nothing to say
for grace
our small boat rises quiet with the tide -
the mooring tugs it in toward the shore.
tight ringlets dark, the color of first blood,
enough to coil around my fingertip.
light upon the water paints a line
of green across my hand, down your side.
I write this with my tongue upon your thigh:
there is nothing I can do about the moon.
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