Poetry By
Danny Earl Simmons
Published on: 1/10/2013
Did the universe know it was her last breath
or did it have to wait with the rest of us for the lack of another? Did it carry her gently away like a kitten in the maw to a warm dark place, or did it rip things from her body the way wedding rings get torn from the sky-blue fingers of battlefield brisance? I hate to think of her erasing into nothing more than nothing more. It would tickle her pink to know that one crisp autumn afternoon in the not too far away, a little boy, having spent all of his Saturday playing outside, rushes into his warm house, grabs a shiny red apple, takes a bite as juice leaks down his chin from where the universe has allowed a little bit of my mother to run.
Published on: 1/9/2013
Alumnus at Spartan Field
It's just turned cold in the mornings on the field where wide-shouldered young men hone the heat of their prime and imagine that they are gods. He hears the clash of power against power, the grunts, the curses, the bleeding, that old gravelly voice snarling into the sweaty steam of stupid youth. He watches until his soft body shivers and his tired joints begin to ache with the stiffness of relentless melancholy and a longing for the ball.
Published on: 1/8/2013
Peacefully, in His Sleep
He awoke as shadows gnawed his chest like they hadn't eaten in weeks. His eyes opened wide upon the black. He heard his wife breathing deeply, clutched where the pain clutched, found something in the dark to appease his need for focus. The ceiling fan spun steadily above the lovemaking that had preceded him into sleep. He watched it spin and each rotation came with a memory and a self-diagnosis. Did it burn? Yes. It burned in his center like the time he leaned into the furnace when he was eight and let it be his excuse for crying over missing his father. Was it radiating? Yes. It spread like the warmth of the first time he saw her. Was his left arm tingling? Yes. It tingled like a fairy tale, like a helpless maiden's rescue from a black-hatted witch. He could not wake her for this. He felt tears now, sliding into his ears as he lay prone to emotion. He tried to turn for a kiss.
Published on: 1/7/2013
Onions and Butter
The mother's hand shakes as she spoon-feeds her son. She's missed lunch again. All she wants is to get him fed and down before starting on dinner. But her hand is shaking and her baby is teething. His face is covered in cereal and drool. He cannot get enough of the feel of his tongue between his lips. Trills another cereal-laden raspberry. The father looks up from yesterday's newspaper. Tries to choke down a laugh. She drops the spoon into the bowl. Stands, one hand on round hip, one hand waving, "He's yours." After a few minutes, yesterday's paper set aside for the last time, the father scrapes the bowl as she spreads peanut butter on toast. He airplanes the last mouthful into the baby's wide-open smile. The baby rubs red-rimmed eyes. Just dusk now. He sings to the baby in the rocking chair. There's a sizzle in the kitchen. She starts to hum along. The baby's eyes close. The house is full of the smell of onions and butter.
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