Two Poems

Eyes

—From The Love Songs of J., Serial Killer

Love claws your eyes out of their sockets

and you press them in backwards with your thumbs

to imprint the image of the lover’s face

that fills your head with so much blood

you say, This is what it must have been like to breathe

together in a cave, to feel all the blood in the body

rise above the neck without a thought or name

for love, not to feed like a poet, deep

on peerless eyes (never suffer

embarrassment of earnest praise)

but to eat them raw, taste what the lover

sees and suck the tears from the irises

like the last drops from the source of the Euphrates.

Albert Fletcher, Saginaw Michigan

—From The Big Book of Confessions and Apologies by Self-Aware Addicted Persons

My father beat me like a too-tight snare

until the flutes in my lungs madrigaled,

“Please, stop, Sir.” Only respect made him

stop demanding respect. When I look

in the mirror, I don’t see a beaten child

but a disappointed man too tired

not to suck back a last Bacardi double,

too splattered against the wall of work

to stay dry beyond a year. To be drunk

for days perfectly sustains the illusion

that I am self-loved unconditionally.

I know, I’ve had enough and so have you

but if you stop my hand when I raise this glass,

I will sever yours at the wrist and drink

with almost sincere regret before

I tear off my sleeve to stanch the bleeding.