A little hardship, a little sickness, a little mourning, a little failure, a lost job, or broken marriage will quickly clarify for us the function of poetry. Vale of tears, oh unreal city, dark world. Meet poetry. - Tony Hoagland
Joseph Kerschbaum has published eight collections of poetry and two spoken word albums. His most recent publications include Mirror Box, forthcoming from Main Street Rag in 2020, and Distant Shores of a Split Second, published by Louisiana Literature Press in 2018. Joseph lives in Bloomington with his family.
Welcome to the Poets Weave, I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Joseph what poems do you have for us today?
I Don’t Look Like Myself Today (all the lives i’ve never lead)
Our distracted glances connect
across a lunch-time cafe crowd.
With a swift flinch of recognition,
an unsure smile of disbelief widens
as you calculate the possibility of now.
Gasp as if you have seen a ghost.
Maybe you have. Stop
where you stand
in the murky middle
of your history
as the barista waits
for your order.
Wait for me
to have an equivalent reaction,
finish the sentence
you haven’t said yet. Start to speak,
expect to find each other
in the dense fog
of a shared memory,
then realize you’re alone.
I don’t know who you are.
Panic for a second
at the prospect of being
forgotten. Not even a footnote
in the meandering narrative
of someone’s life who made
an impact or least an impression
on your own. Step back
into this moment
with a stranger
who isn’t aware
that we lost cabin pressure
but oxygen is flowing again.
Take a breath
as we arrive at the other side
of this stunted exchange.
This misplaced person
who casts a similar shadow as me
has not traversed whatever
chasm of time and space
so they could be standing
happenstance in a coffee shop -
but for a few swift heartbeats,
miracles still existed.
I thought you were someone else,
you say. That’s OK, I often mistake myself
for someone else too, I say. We part ways,
the end feels abrupt as if there is more
to say. A conversation feels unfinished
but I don’t think it’s the one
between us right now.
We Forgive You (taraxacum)
Crushed under
your stained-green
sneakers, close enough
to smell perspiration
mix with gasoline
and disappointment.
Whirling blades
mutilate us but
this doesn’t quell
our mob scene.
Pull at our stems
as if those are
our throats.
Rip our bodies
to shreds
but this doesn’t kill us.
You will have to dig
deeper than that.
Force fed
poison
we are helpless
to swallow,
our mouths
perpetually open.
Can’t eradicate
all of us. Those left
grow resistant,
angry. Rage
against a world
that blows off
our soft heads
with a gentle breath
and makes a wish.
Go ahead. Smile
at the neighbors
as they drive by.
From the car window,
your wave resembles
a casual greeting,
not an SOS
from a sinking ship,
dry drowning
on the landlocked shore.
We know why
you are out
in the harsh summer sun.
Can almost hear
your skin burning
from here, the inevitable
melanoma festers.
Get this one thing right
you plead with yourself
without saying
anything. Everything else
can stay broken.
You forget
we are always
listening. Remember,
we don’t care
about your needs.
We didn’t intend
to be a metaphor
lurking in your lawn
in the middle
of your life
but here we are.
You don’t need us
to tell you that you
are a failure.
We do it anyway.
Still Waiting (in god’s hands)
Tide of shame swells
as he breathes
too hard
to finish his sentences.
He gives his mother details
of the awful thing he’s done.
He crushes his eyes
closed and waits
for warm words.
He is lost
at sea or just unable
to see the shore.
Drowning either way.
He asks her
if he will still
get into heaven.
She says
that will be up to God.
You’ve been listening to poetry by Joseph Kerschbaum on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
