“The poem is a form of negotiation with what haunts us or to put it another way is the interior dialogue we have with our other selves and so far as what haunts us is in part who we are.”
- Carl Phillips
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?
---
Years to Burn
Shadows bleed
over every frozen thing
in the elongated evenings
of muted winter days
with the dull shine
of tarnished silver
when my circadian rhythms
run ragged
& I can’t sleep
in all this darkness.
I take scarce sunlight
for granted
as if it will always be here
exposing the carelessness
that lingers
like dust bunnies
in empty corners
where I don’t remember
how those indentations
were made in the carpet.
Gaining an extra minute
of daylight each day
doesn’t extinguish
the untethered shadows
that run amok
after I cut them loose.
After two thousand
frozen hours,
I breach the edge of winter
where I drag my cold bones
like a burlap sack of clocks
across the threshold of March.
This year
will be better,
I say every year
when spring returns
as if I have years
to burn
& endless people
to neglect.
---
Weed Garden
Dandelions were as pretty
as any other flower in the yard
when I didn’t know any better.
I knew enough
to stay safe enough
with minimal scarring.
Learned to stand
in doorways or away
from windows when
the tornado siren rang.
The neighbor’s cat forgot
to look both ways
when a Volkswagen crushed its guts,
just like our parents warned.
In those same streets
slow trucks that sounded
like loud vacuum cleaners
sprayed DEET into the summer air
to kill invasive insects.
Like a motorized pied piper,
the kids followed, dancing
in the dense fog
with a dry smell
of fresh talcum powder
that hid disease in our lungs
like Easter eggs we discovered
decades later. I’ve learned
manicured lawns
are the byproduct
of pushing back
against the world
that wants to grow wild.
Neighbors drive-by slowly,
staring out from little fishbowls,
judging each other
as if we aren’t all hanging
by various threads.
---
Detasseling
The field doesn’t need a mouth
to swallow you. The wall of mature corn stalks
closes as you enter. It’s like you were never
here. Your fresh skin is licked raw by a thousand dry husks.
Blotchy rash of microscopic cuts & relentless sunburn
itches all summer. Ghost of a breeze whispers
in the swaying tassels overhead. Thrust your hand
above the crops. Your outstretched fingers
look like someone drowning. Thick mud sucks
your boot with each step. Remember
your grandparents’ advice; lift your heel
with force to snap the wet soil’s grasp.
On your way home, identical cornfields
flank every road. Drive for miles
but feel like you have gone
nowhere. Exhausted, untie your crusted
black laces. Add yours to the row of
muddy boots on the front porch.
---
Now that we have nowhere to hide
we stand stripped of our foliage,
transparent through our thin branches.
We see each other
down to the bone again.
Every year this abscission occurs.
This is different.
How many torrents have we survived this year?
Too many to remember, the storms blur together.
In our exhausted dormancy, we dream
of recovery. Retreat from the hazards of winter,
we transition to ghosts who haunt
our suspended selves.
Under snow-covered ground, our roots
stretch & strengthen. Just before we break,
we thaw & shake loose the ice. Come back
to me. Soon we will reclaim our estranged bodies
like putting on new pale green party dresses.
You're listening to the poems of Joseph Kerschbaum on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
