Spring 2022, Volume 32

Poetry by Doug Anderson

My Heart

My friend chides me about the number of poems
in my new book, mostly about failed love,
that have the word heart in them.
I go through the MS and remove a few hearts,
find another way to say heart.
And now my real heart, failing
like all the other muscles, has acquired a cardiologist.
He’s inserted a monitor in my chest
that broadcasts wirelessly to his office
where a nurse checks each beat.
They can do nothing if I drop dead in my sleep.
I dreamed about a certain woman again last night.
I am broadcasting to her, far away in Boston,
my love and my grief. I will not have
love like this again. At seventy-eight I think
of other ways to love. Google says,
“The heart's electrical field is 60 times
greater in amplitude than 
the electrical activity generated by the brain.”
My brain’s helping me write this
but it’s helpless against the errant neurons
which, like the Tarot fool,
have me with one foot always stepping off a cliff.
The fool will not be quiet: he says love now,
says ashes to ashes,
someone will stir them back to flame.

Pastor Fred

He said we were going to Hell if we did not stay awake for his    sermons.
He said the Ten Commandments were not negotiable.
He said black people were living proof of the curse of Ham.
He said scripture was a matter to be interpreted by those
whom God had appointed and if we questioned that we'd go to    Hell.
He said he was such a person and we'd best watch our mouths.
He said the fishes and the loaves applied only to people who had    been saved
and not these smelly poor you find in doorways.
And when they came and got him for knocking up
fifteen year old Jenny Lou, he shouted he was a martyr
as they shoved him the car. We went home and sinned. And sinned    some more.

Family Court

They were heavy when alive.
I had to carry them
all day, all night, their judgments
a necklace of window weights.
Now that they are dead
they become lighter daily.
Their ghosts, trailing behind me,
let go and recede
one by one into the dark.
I am alone now with my faults.
But they are mine only.

Beloved

I sing loudly in the morning.
Death opens one eye, pulls the covers over her head.

I dance now, I bounce up and down, misbehave for the Hell of it.
Death is dreaming of a garden.

I bathe myself in the river.
Death watches me, deftly separates the sections of an orange.

I brush the horse who has ambled over to me.
Death lies under the red maple, the wind moving her gown.

I praise God and all his creation. I praise the jeweled trout in the    river.
Death yawns, rolls over on her stomach.

At noon my shadow disappears under my feet. I feel the voices of    bees.
Death pulls her bottle of wine out of the river by a string.

I chase demons back into the woods, their backs raw from my whip.
Death plays with her doll, tidies her clothes, kisses her little skull.

I clean the windows to better see the blue day.
Death paints her nails bright red. The sunflowers tremble.

I shout, I know nothing of love after all these years. I am    bewildered.
Death whispers, Yes, good.

Evening now and the sun a bright band slung low behind the       half-gold, half-black trees.
Death says, It’s not long now.

The stars are as thick as baby spiders.
Death says, Come to me.

I hear the river running in the dark, watch the stars swirl in the    water.
Death says, Come to me.

I go to her and she folds back the black bed clothes.
Undress she says.

Naked, I slide under the sheets with her.
Death wraps her silky thighs around me, her mouth rank with wine,    her breath hot.

Roman Charity

How she keeps track of me
I don’t know, shows up
at the ER Sunday for my stroke.
I smell her perfume all the way
from the front desk: lilacs.
They bloom only six weeks, she says,
but what weeks they are.
She looks around the room
watches my vitals blipping
on the screen, sniffs the air.
Noisy, she says.
The doctors are in and out
but ignore her. It’s fall
and she’s wearing a turtle neck,
long sleeves covering her tattoos.
I have others here, she says,                                
nodding toward the hall.
Unlike them you’ve got through this one.
Who’d have thought impermanence
could last so long. See how
the minutes open into days,
the seconds hours.
Then she blocks the door with her wings,
lifts her sweater
and offers me a swollen breast.
Drink deep, she says.

 

 

 

BIO: Doug Anderson is widely published in literary journals, and has written books of poems, plays, short stories, a memoir, book reviews and essays. His next book, Undress, She Said, will be published by Four Way Books in 2022. He has new poetry in Nine Mile, The Massachusetts Review and The San Pedro River Review. ​