"Writing is a kind of revenge against circumstance, bad luck, loss, pain. If you make something out of it, then you've no longer been bested by these events." - Louise Glück

Joseph Kerschbaum’s most recent publications include Mirror Box published in 2020 by Main St Rag Press and Distant Shores of a Split Second published in 2018 by Louisiana Literature Press. His work has appeared in Reunion: The Dallas Review, Hamilton Stone Review, The Inflectionist Review, Main Street Rag, In Parentheses, and Umbrella Factory. Joseph lives in Bloomington, Indiana with his family.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Joe, what poems have you brought for us today?

Distance to Here

Two letters in the fluorescent grocery store sign
flicker on the verge of burning out.
A cracked display window held together
with masking tape and last week's sales circular
resembles a belated birthday gift from a distant alcoholic relative.
Craters in the maroon stucco
looked like the pocked marked surface of Mars.

Two decades ago, the facade facelift was fresh.
New automatic doors swung wide,
as if welcoming the future with a rush of frigid conditioned air
and the mineral smell of fresh asphalt.

We were bag boys
collecting shopping carts in the parking lot,
too bored to care about these jobs or this town.
Our futures were yellow brick roads
laid ahead of us in golden promise.
We were confident that they destined us anywhere but here.

One night after our shift,
we made a wager in that parking lot
to see who would move farthest, fastest.
Your sights were set on Seattle.

We never noticed the funeral home across the street
where I stand now.
Neither of our younger selves would ever believe
this is where the future ends.
Distance from there and then to here and now
is a stunted 50 yards.

Place a mask over my face,
guide myself by the hand into your wake,
back and to the unrelenting present
where you now reside in my past.

Mourners stay arms-length away.
Grieve your short life.
Your long death.
Your breath held for years
as you waited for the future to start,
until you chose to stop waiting and breathing.

--------------------
Into Darkness

At the base of the monolith,
I stare upward in darkness.
From here, the grain storage silo extends forever
into the night sky.

I mimic the other kids laughter,
as if my stomach isn't churning or my teeth aren't chattering.
Around us the wind whispers with corn husk tongues.
No one else hears a hushed warning in the humid air.

This summer, all of the boys
have proven their fledgling bravery
by reaching the top,
except for me.

Grasping the steel bar
quiets, my trembling hands.
Muffled cheers erupts with my first reluctant step
up the rusted ladder.

Could this be the rung where years ago
a worker lost their grip?
The echoes of that incident resonate as I climb.
I concentrate on placing each unsteady foot
without glancing downward,
where blood was rinsed out of the gravel.

Generations removed since the accident,
which some folks insist is just local folklore.
Depends on who you ask.
Everyone has heard a different name.
None of them match the tombstones
in the graveyard on the edge of town.

-----------------------
Ghost in the Graveyard

Into the exotic dark
children venture
under summer constellations.
Firefly Morris Code,
hoard of wasps,
benign suburban danger.

They agreed to the rules.
All players start safe.
They don't stay
that way.
Lamppost home base.
Countdown together
until mock midnight.
Hunt the spirits,
boys and girls disperse into the thick, dark,
stumble across lawns,
lose sight of safety,
alone in the night.

Ghosts shaped like kids
hide behind bushes and trees,
lurk around corners.
They wait to be found,
then pounce.
Hear a rustle.
See a shadow, with wide eyes, warning
scream "ghost in the graveyard."
Scatter. Panic.
Terror gives chase,
running, laughing,
out of breath.
Sprint toward base
not fast enough.
Someone is tagged.
A lost soul doesn't return home.
Begin again.
Count. Hunt. Run.
One by one,
all children turn to ghosts.

------------------------
Afterlife

roads slick as liars’ tongues
your hands white knuckle the steering wheel
tight enough to strangle a confession out of it
push-pull of velocity’s influence
into & out of each sharp curve
guard rails can only keep you
so safe

stare hard through the glass skin
of the mechanical animal
that carries you
inside its belly

imaginary yellow wall
in the middle of the road
we agree to believe in
similar to faith
but with real-world consequences
so much of what protects us
isn't really there

survival is so many
unspoken agreements
to not do terrible things
to each other

headlights in the distance get closer
they turn down their high beams
one line of code that confers
we’re in this together

pass close enough to feel
a rush of wind against
the driver’s side window

your entire life
for a split-second
is in their hands
each of us not swallowing
our spoonful of oblivion

just then

You're listening to the poems of Joseph Kerschbaum on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.