Zac breaks with spring —Matthew Schnirman
The duffs of pallbearers; a mound
of flowers pearled over; prayers heard
through a dog’s black ear.
Above the Florida-Georgia line, wasps
swarmed pews of sweet peaches. Lost,
I studied the nexus of Father, Son
and Holy Shit. (It goes on, just sayin).
Lord, even the priest drank after sermon.
Along a road, I traced spring’s torso,
like a virgin.
I begged and petted for one more day
before I shot the mask from the horse’s face
and stole apart, hopped up on glass,
along with the bottom half of his ass-piece.
I pulled over to ask a mechanic: Tell me the truth.
Does this song lead to Duluth
or back to water?
He said, Your dinero’s no good. It was lights out. Midnight
crept up the highway like
a creature in a glade, shining
like a bruise a haymaker makes; a voice cracking;
the Nile flooding every region.
Time had proven inopportune—a game of telephone
with Persephone and her drastic tone
This hell-and-back; this up-and-down abyss
where in it I found
not a single facsimile.
Patrick T. Reardon