Saturday, May 2, 2020

Lance La Rocque : Four poems


Once a rising chatter
Clouds the skies---

All the birds are dead
Wires sag over the ground

Legs wander through the deserted town

Toes try to feel a way into being
Weaving thru—
Abandoned cars

The search for lost parts

It’s the forest of wrecks
In magazines
Rusted out questions

And ash

The universe gasps

Head plunges up through the bed
Hands want to scramble for paper and pen

A dry stick scratches the sand


My mother’s bedtime hug
Sundown, her energy worn
The warmth of the radiator
I hug
In winter
Cartoons at
And Saturday morning
The voices long gone
Strange lonely joy
Unknown before
The glow-in-the-dark ring
These are the lost things
These are
The lost
Burnt meat on the spit
Initiates the lonely hunt


Like poison or a virus
Whispered in a sleeping ear
In feverish detail I can’t recall
The origin of the story
Am I awake
If we’d met.  Are you told
Was I touched. I feel. Hands held
In the alley, by the Italian café
Or mixing minds. A plant
Returning again to your scent
Circling a drain for a trace
Of your hair.
An alley. A café.
A path. A place
A trace of your hair
Spirals down the drain


The child’s world is filling
Of gods
Bristling giants
Scatter toys
Across the floor
Farmers of the soul
Seeds to sow
Who want
What they want
--don’t know
Malleable meat
Not too soft
The brisk slap
Or wild
Across the pink face
Pink cheeks
A diagram
Should resist
Meat and bone
They say
They want.
And what they want
When the film rolls
They don’t know
The dark

Lance La Rocque lives in Wolfville, NS. With Lisa, Emily, and Max.

He has published in Hava LeHaba, Industrial Sabotage, and The Northern Testicle Review, and has a book of poetry, Vermin, by Book hug.

These poems are from glitch, a chapbook of new poems forthcoming from above/ground press.

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