Three Poems | Michael Meyerhofer
POETRY
9/30/20242 min read
Some days you see God
But others, you’re a stock broker
daydreaming he’s a surgeon dreaming
he’s a horse in a moon-drunk field,
breathing like a weightlifter
against the river’s wild neck, mane
a golden dance no one’s watching.
Have I told you about my dead maker,
the Keynesian innards of heartbreak?
Sooner or later, we all arrive here.
Once, mine carried me to a cave
and left me so long on damp rocks
that I couldn’t tell my sin from hers.
Just now, the shifting blossoms
on the wallpaper reminded me of plates
of hot iron pressing beneath our feet,
what never cools – until it does.
Collateral damage
My mother never asked
for the kind of life that requires
a steady supply of insulin.
Sometimes, when she
thought I wasn’t looking,
she’d lower her head
to her forearm like the statue
of some maimed warrior,
trying not to whimper. Still,
throughout all those years spent
feeling her way through
Beethoven and fiddling
with the thermostat,
no matter how tattered
our budget, I could always
open our refrigerator
and find those vials resting
in the wings – tiny glass
missiles full of holy water.
Tonight, closing in on the age
of her death as the TV
swells with sacks of flour
that turn out to be body bags,
I wonder how many Gazans
drained their last vial
days ago – still running –
with nothing but photographs
of smiling corpses
and a blanket they hope
will keep their feet warm.
Survival instructions
It seems we’ve found ourselves
in a poem. No wonder constellations
fracture like tectonic plates,
trees and flowers blurring like God
can’t quite remember the stencils,
keeps guessing at the edges.
Next comes a rosary of hospital beds,
flags like tigers made of water,
dictators weeping into their collars.
Later: screaming dinosaurs
with picture frames for bones,
parentheses of sliced watermelon,
spiders making seesaws of dandelions.
But for every bra strap tumbling
like prophecy, countless birds
fly backwards into blood
that might only be snow falling
after a haircut or a botched wedding.
They take something out of you –
freight trains, burnt meals,
the promises of dead presidents –
but if you walk long enough,
you’ll find a corner. Place your back
against the seam. Sink, then
breathe until you can’t remember how.
Fold your hands but not to pray.
Michael Meyerhofer is the author of five books of poetry – including What To Do If You’re Buried Alive (free from Doubleback Books). His work has appeared in The Sun, Missouri Review, Southern Review, Rattle, DIAGRAM and other journals. For more info and an embarrassing childhood photo, visit troublewithhammers.com.