Oct/Nov 2001 Poetry

Two Poems

by C. Garza

Art by Bob Dornborg


A Fish

lands splat by my foot as I fasten some
bait to a hook, at which point I drop
the cast of the line to the wind. I think
it was that one whip of instinct that
shot him out of the murky mouth
of the lake, an ejected tongue,
his convulsing body a stammer
in the dry mouth. Later I will slit him
open, cut meat from hollow bone,
but first I let the air tighten and
tighten around him and in him,
the humid air, the ghost of water.


I ____ You

I want you
to tell me when to lift
the blank between us
as if a bar, a steel rod
on the ground, and
from it the word
will hang like meat lifted
hot out of white sand. So
we'll lie together, we'll
sweat keeping the word
between us until it finds
its way into your body
and curls up into child.
Or have you buried
the word, spread cement
over the spot as though
it was the grave of your
parents? You don't think
they've broken through,
you don't think I see
they each have a
cold hand over your
heart so you'll never
feel the word fill
your mouth with
all its rosy suns.
Sit down, let me say
the word, let me fill
in the blank of our life,
force your parents hand
in hand back down.


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