Poetry By
Matt Kolbet
Published on: 2/15/2013
Elder Wars
I imagine the elderly denizens of Astor House compete with the Spring River Retirement Home in more than longevity. They stare at one another, seeing death in the hoods of each other's eyes, counting heirs and inheritance. When it rains, the minutes split as slowly as hairs. The old women smile when I visit, ask me my dad's age, calculating averages in their world, ask me to put in a good word because between angiogram and x-ray there are so few. Easy promises fall from my lips, the leprosy of language, but I never confess how little it all means. No, nor how in the picture of my father's tumor I saw my son.
Published on: 2/14/2013
Absences on Thursday
David and Crystal were gone, will probably drop the class, though they didn't say anything on Tuesday. Kandis was gone, couldn't find a babysitter. (I might hire myself out) Holly was gone, but she wrote, to meet with her cardiologist. (These messages we send to each other, letters substituted for the beating of our hearts). Launa was late, as usual. Kassie was present, primarily in complaints. She held a hand- drawn sign asking for food. (I ignore it, remind them we are hear to learn how to be stronger readers, to be ready for classes, that we have the rest of our lives to be eaten).
Published on: 2/13/2013
Father's Day
There is eager fear being the son of an important man— nothing so boring as inheritance nor as banal as assassination. Even as time defeats him, he seems important, debated by interlocutor memory— Wikipedia page, open to editing, to glory in flimsy digital retention. Life no longer waits in the inkwell. The old man points to his reputation, flaunts lovers: no lingering in lingerie. He promises that another time I might stay, the gain of someday. But Hell's anonymity, like the knot of the letter q, does not translate well. When you have a life sentence, every- one wants to see the next phrase: There are days when I forget moral reprisal and think I'll have to kill him.
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