Some Things I have Learned That I Would Be Much Better Off Not Knowing

July 2010 | back-issues, poetry

by Madeleine J Deerly (1938-2009)

well here I was, facing another locked drawer without a key,
and not just metaphorically, although there is that.
thinking more crap that you accumulated and left me to deal with;
more coins, more stamps, more bills, a neatly
rubber-banded bundle of Publishers Sweepstakes entries
never sent in but saved because god knows why.
all that junk in my basement. a car that no one wants,
cowering in dusty mortification and leaking oil
all over a dozen or so cartons
containing nothing useful as far as I can see.
and I think, oh what a lovable idiot you were, you great big doofus
what a warm and funny simple guy, and wasn’t I lucky
to be the one you loved and left all this mess?
and wasn’t life more interesting and full because you were so careless
about the details, like putting the car title where someone could find it?
and wasn’t I just telling someone the other day
about how none of this mattered because you and I were always
so crazy about each other?
and isn’t it ironic now that I have to pay some guy $65
to drill out this lock and find this little pile of what will turn out to be
love letters from the Polish lady who took care of your mother?
yes, the very one for whom I wrote the glowing reference,
although my intention was not to refer her to you.
to whom was I talking, when I thought I was talking to you?
and just how long did you think it would take
for me to turn this into material?

Dear Harvey

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

I went to your memorial last Thursday
but you were not there
in your place was an old photo
you on your horse
full head of poorly cut hair
accidentally hip.

The woman spoke about energy, afterlife
and rejoining your ancestors.
While we bowed our heads
you reached into your holster
drew your revolver
and took pot shots.

If you didn’t want your bronzed baby booties displayed in public
you should’ve mentioned it while you had the chance, cowboy.

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008

My Last Visit

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

Cold meat covered in thin white cotton.
One foot protrudes.
Mouth agape, drools silently.
Teeth removed, stored neatly on the roll-away table.

As if you might get warm,
or wake up and need to chew.
Sourness—a look or a feeling? I’m
not sure. Mislabeled television controls.
I’ll see what I can do to fix this
error.

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008

Kent

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

I love you, I told him
Meals on wheels didn’t come ’til three o’clock
He’s pissed
I love you too, he said, trying to swallow it back down

*

Rewind, thirty years:
Leisure suit and perm aside,
Dad’s never changed
Trouble with women, he says, they just want to be happy

He never remarried
Thanksgiving with my Mom—Christmas with Dad
I came home after college
He was an old man

*

He reads glossy magazines
Schools me on pop culture
On his 78th birthday he asked for Moby
Though lately he prefers punk

When I was young, I had this dream my dad was shot
in the chest with a cannonball
He came home in this dream; I could see right through
the big round hole
The wound was clean, as if he were made of cookie dough
I couldn’t bring myself to touch him

*

Gave my dad a hug the other day
We repaired his iTunes
Picked over cold lunchmeat
Snapped a few pictures, said goodbye

Three days later—snail-mail from Dad
Scrawled across the back of a carefully folded article
About Balinese Hip Hop:
I love you, too

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008