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Paul B. Roth (4 poems)

FOUND OUT

                Between us are no names. Signs ingrained by repetitive gestures are all that’s necessary. Deep in bird song is the forest where we stand. Gurgling over split rock across which we step, a flat stream wets our pant cuffs. One of us insists on taking another path, the other urges going ahead, making this body, a shared one, spin in place. Making this body a past, played out where gymnasium children stood on each other’s’ shoulders and crawled from basement windows in a desperate attempt at regaining their parents.  A  past  when  having  escaped,  they  find their parents gone, their brothers

and sisters missing. Where once a warm bread was shared at dusk among roses whose aroma was colored  the  hue  of  a  Danube  sunset,  the  same dining room’s once butterfly embroidered wallpaper

has now been stripped in uneven lengths alongside the steaming peeled skins of boiled cow tongues. The future we dreamed was a reality, now drags our hearts’ pace down to the vertical spray of light that dusty champagne bottles pop in French wine cellars. We toast the sky that floats atop our bubbling goblets and in one gulp swallow it down. Having no longer any kind of sun in its midst, it may be our final hope for survival.

GOING NOWHERE

                             No  one  comes  back.  Still,  we  wait  without  being   convinced.  So  many  we’ve  known,

so many unknown over centuries who met horrible ends. Eyes gouged out, ears sliced off, noses butterflied, teeth filed flat, lips sewn shut, arms and legs severed at the elbow and knee, torsos hacked while   still   squirming,   even   castrations   producing   eunuchs   who  alone  could  be  trusted  to  protect

Sumerian harems or the Chinese Emperor’s wives. Not to mention all those others whose chests were hollowed out, and whose children were allowed to feel around an expanse of sea water and honey for fragments  of  their  mothers   and  fathers.  Until  one  night,  a  particular  heart  was  scooped  out  before

holding  its   beat   for some  time  hung   just  over a  fire pit’s  rising  flames.  Grilled as  a special meal the

king  had  requested  his  adulterous  queen  be  served  with  her  choice  of  wine  that very night, it was to

be  prepared  so  as  not  to  arouse  his  lady’s  suspicions  in  the  least.  After  all,  was  he  not  entitled to

emulate the same gratified pose his queen has recently shown over her most recent repast?

DIN

                           Choirs  a  golden  chrysalis  cracks  open,  heard  only  by  a  marching  column  of  black ants

across  a  discarded  soda  straw,  drift  off  towards  the  very  end  of  their  muffled  hymnal.  Earth’s  aroma

is  all  that’s  left  of  their  song.  I  could  taste  this  remnant  were  it  not  for  my  mouth  wasting  so  much

time  speaking  and  not  enough  time  salivating.  More  time  translating  identity  into  words  lassoing  rain

clouds in the desert. And yet, were it not for these words, would there be any need for greeting this anonymous   page   everyday   with  nothing  written  that  will  surprise  or  reveal  the  unexpected.  Perhaps

I’ve  been  tricked  into  thinking  every  world  I  create  is  habitable  for  those  who  have  no  need of others.

Perhaps  unable  to  be  halved,  there  hasn’t  been  a  measurable  whole  to  my being. Then again, that may

be  only  when  either  the  past  has  vanished  or  the  present’s  seemed  a  far  less  generous  gift from the

future.

PUSHING THROUGH

                         I  never  think  about  backing  off.  Yet  having  come  so  far  to this forest, I hesitate at its

edge.  Before  I  step   into   its   midst,   my   eyes   adjust   to   its  thick  density.  Differing  compositions

accumulating  layers  of  this  forest’s floor over time—thick crusts of buried leaves, brittle pine needles,

incidental  feathers,  cracked  nut  shells,  moth wing remnants, ridged worm casings, fragile seed hulls,

exhausted flowers,  hollow  insect corpses,  tiny bits  of  predator discarded bone, decaying logs of moss

under crumbles  of  softened bark, manure in all colors, shapes and volumes—all release, from beneath

each  step  taken,   an   ever-changing   aroma   steeped   in  the  moment  to  moment  death  that  self-

perpetuates,  intoxicates,  and  dizzies  my  brain,  all  while reintroducing my imagination to a living soil

of  dead things. So much silence is there that even my breathing cries to be heard. If a rock filled stream

slows  itself  down  to  a  trickle,  the songs of unseen birds which its usual downhill torrent suppresses,

would  be  better  heard.  Trapped  by  my longing and my losses, everything about me turns up missing.

Paths  my  feet  trample  before  walking  off  the edge of the world, vanish in the air I leave behind. Now

all  that’s  left  of  me  is  what  I’ve  forgotten.  Now  all that’s left of me is forgotten.

Paul B. Roth, editor and publisher of The Bitter Oleander Press, is the author of seven collections  of poems, including  Owasco: Passage of Lake Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Long Way Back to the End (Rain Mountain Press, 2014).

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