Three Poems
New Year
There was nothing in that drawer
except for what we would put there.
Neither of us were collectors
but I had a fascination with hearts.
The many tubes of inletting and out-
letting—the round aorta done up
like a bun in your hair. Yours was
the only one I captured. I remember
how you handed it to me, on a cold
slab of a morning, purple and throbbing.
−14 degrees was planned for the evening.
I left with my boots on, carrying
a darkly stained paper bag, held out
like a lantern. All day I walked
through streets and up stairs, shouldering
a part of your body that you entrusted
to me. I did not mean to be greedy
when I returned home and asked to feel
the light your body gave off under the moon.
It had been so cold that my fingers
broke off like small twigs. We placed them
in the empty drawer, and as we closed it,
they echoed as if reanimated with good news.
Narcissus Papyrus
When I read the poem about paper whites
I confused it with a money plant
having just emailed you about the credit card
Subject: $ Paid off! All I could do
was think to celebrate, so I charged
a sixpack, and we drank it as you taught me
the difference between a paper white and
an annual honesty. I’m not a gardener
but I cultivate. You do your thing, I do
mine and together we shared our own
truths. The suffering I caused bitching
about our debt, and how I wasn’t sure
where to hang my anxiety. Holy Christmas
being over, dead trees line the streets
and spill out of dumpsters which means I’m
no longer freezing my ass off with a smile just
freezing my ass off. I thought it would be good
to see something sprout, so today I went to
the flower shop with the pink orchid in the window,
which I know I would kill, and instead walked out
with a bundle of cut flowers all thorny stemmed & full
of prickers. Something to put a one-sided smile on
your face as you forked the leftovers into your mouth
saying through the mashed potatoes Isn’t that just like you.
Event Horizon
It’s Wednesday again
and the week is half in
the bag from which I pull
a tangerine for my two sons,
the fruit that looks like a star
inside, my joke is all we eat
is processed sunlight but no matter
what I say or do the world
is always left hanging
in the balance even though
there are moments when looking
at small fingers learning
to balance a sphere
I feel a mortality in me
that will not die. Like the time
someone said that star we look upon
is trying to kill us
only I always trust
what allows me to
see, though we have passed the point
of no return, before the fruit
was on the vine, before
the chlorofluorocarbon’s sweet ethereal
odor was born and then
barred. I’m not thinking
of the children when I jot
down my fears. All fear is
is writing and all writing
a form of fear. Don’t
twist too clever a phrase
you’re not shaping the world
in anyone’s image and there are
nitrogen particles
that would sooner kill you
than make you stronger. So build
a good, hot fire and read
a radioactive comic book because
it’s Wednesday, my night alone
with the kids and the darkness
is coming on outside, a stipple
of light, let’s call it tangerine.
Not yours. Not mine. The children’s
hands are coming together
inconsistently shouting for more
of what I can give
I will give them
what I can give
Douglas Korb is the author of the prize-winning chapbook The Cut Worm, and his poems have appeared in several magazines such as NOӦ Journal, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Hobart, Versal, Barrelhouse, Spork, Redactions, RHINO, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. He is currently on the board of directors for the Collected Poets Series in Shelburne Falls, MA. His erasure art and other work can be found online at brokarthere.wordpress.com.