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
                    of spring.

This hell-and-back; this up-and-down abyss
          where in it I found
                    not a single facsimile.


Matthew Schnirman

Matthew Schnirman's poetry appears in fabulous journals and the movie Fifty Shades Darker. He's received fellowships and residencies from Hugo House, Jack Straw, Vermont Studio Center, and Ucross Foundation. He lives sleeplessly in Seattle.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2018