Jul/Aug 2002 Poetry

Two Poems

by Beau Boudreaux

Art by Bob Dornborg


What I Owe

I do not know anymore
the worn crimson palm
of this hand, the past

engages like a front
supine in dark
this might have been

a part of the Carnival years
sealed like bruised lips—
she's in the mirror

again, pleasuring herself
rolling her eyeballs
tossing the hair

I count each second
at the pluck of a brow
certain I can't wait.



I reach this uneasily

the despondent shuffling
of my histories

toward an end

we can't see any more
nor forecast weather

stars in the kitchen
window, clock ticks

kids and wife gone
for now
fingers slide
bullets in the chamber—

Carlos, this is the way?

Catching each light,
running red, red


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