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.