Crossman Corner, ME (The Killer in Me Is Convinced)

Steve — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 16:57:00 +0000

The killer in me is convinced he can see ghosts,
that anyone can, as long as he is also a killer
and has an open mind. He says I can see my father’s ghost,
the one in mismatched denim drinking coffee,
and surely one little kill is worth that.
I say, My father isn’t dead yet. He is very much alive,
though very sad. He drives a truck across frozen roads,
and to pass the time he makes a mental list
of different kinds of sadness. Last I heard, there were seven:
invisible sad, long damn rolling road sad,
these sad times, lady sadness, sadness beyond measure,
moored boat sadness, and the sadness of lack.
Furthermore, I say, What about Hamlet,
who saw his father’s ghost, though he was not a killer
at the time—but the killer in me is quick to note
Hamlet isn’t real and should be taken as a special case,
regardless. Then he tells me to choose: an ice road trucker,
a weeping minister, a horse, whichever is easiest to forget.

Everybody Has Hands, Almost

Steve — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 16:55:28 +0000

Tell me again about the girl whose hands
have no color. Whose hands are completely
white. This time make them damned, or
untouched, or have her open a red umbrella

or point at some maple leaves and damned
near cry. Those hands. As freakish goes,
I wish I had a tail. Maybe then you’d know
how much I like you. It shakes me through,

damn through. It shakes me. When she carries
a peacock feather. When she touches her neck
or thighs. You’re a person. It’s not so bad.
You have hands. You are a person with hands

to hold things. Things you like. Tremendous
things. Tell me what you will hold today. I
know there is room for everything. There is no
need to be ceremonious. Tell what gets let go.

Anti- » Rebecca Wadlinger Poetry

Crossman Corner, ME (The Killer in Me Is Convinced)

Everybody Has Hands, Almost