Spring 2017, Volume 22

Poetry by Daniel Blokh

Excuse for Shovels

I was in the yard, watching the dog I never had
die. Holding my hand to her dewy nose
and waiting for air to return. Wondering where it went.
The dog I never had was brown as hazelnut.
Her name could fit in the back of a throat. Her fur was so wet
I thought she would slip out of my hands. The dog I never had
never learned to hunger. She did not bite, no matter how close
I brought my hand to her open jaw, feeling her slowing breath,
watching her eyes fill with a softness that would never leave
me, even when my mother called me in for dinner.

Kitchen Confessional

I want to ask you - have you seen the news?
People are dying
under bridges, in cabs, in dark alleys.
I want to know if we’ve gotten any calls.

People are dying.
Have you thought of that?
I want to know if we’ve gotten any calls
about our broken TV.

Have you thought of that?
You don’t even remember
about our broken TV,
the volume we can’t turn down.

You don’t even remember
to hold me, hands over my ears, blocking out
the volume we can’t turn down.
I want to tell you that it’s silly to want god

to hold me, hands over my ears, blocking out
the feeling of loneliness.
I want to tell you that it’s silly to want god.
Yesterday, the pope was caught

feeling loneliness.
The nation listens closely:
“Yesterday, the pope was caught
wearing pajamas.”

The nation listens closely
as we argue at the kitchen table,
wearing pajamas.
I listen as you speak.

As we argue at the kitchen table,
in some dark corner elsewhere, a body meets water.
I listen as you speak,
voice heavy with faith.

In some dark corner elsewhere, a body meets water.
screams stifled,
voice heavy with faith.
All those sad people,

screams stifled.
Can you turn the TV down? I can’t stand hearing
all those sad people.
I don’t want to see people as sad as me.

Can you turn the TV down? I can’t stand hearing
empty sermons blare.
I don’t want to see people as sad as me.
I want my peace, my quiet, my superiority.

Empty sermons blare
under bridges, in cabs, in dark alleys.
I want my peace, my quiet, my superiority.
I want to ask you - have you seen the news?

The Quieter Breaking

happened sometime after you told me to go again, after I put the skateboard
2 feet higher than last time/ 2 seconds faster
on my glide down/ 2 seconds carrying me over the curb, arm-
first into pavement. Happened sometime after the drive
when you tried to convince us both blameless.
Happened sometime in there,
between the bone snapping
apart and back together. Happened so quietly
the doctor didn’t notice, so quietly that by the time you drove me home
the flesh had already regrown around it.

For a Better Self

Where's your appetite gone? Too far
to reach, I hope. I chop vegetables for you in the kitchen,
keep the stove going, lay out the table. When I bring the knife down
the red shells part before me, sweet and starved
as mouths. When the knife turns sideways, I almost see you
in the glimmer. Your thin body waiting to become me.
Each click of the knife against the wooden board
counts down a day to your arrival. I keep my knife turned straight.
I wait to be split. I brush onions onto the pan,
watch them grow thin, watch the tears leak out.

 

 

 

BIO: Daniel Blokh is a 15-year-old writer living in Birmingham, Alabama. He is the author of the memoir In Migration (BAM! Publishing 2016) and the micro-chapbook The Wading Room (Origami Poems Project 2016). His poetry chapbook, Grimmening, is forthcoming from ELJ Publications in 2018. His work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards and the Foyle Young Poet awards, and has appeared in DIALOGIST, Gigantic Sequins, Forage Poetry, Avis Magazine, Thin Air Magazine, Cicada Magazine, and more. He works as an editor at Parallel Ink and a reader at the Adroit Journal. He should probably go play outside with his friends, but he's busy worrying about the results of his writing submissions.