Scythe

Leonard Gontarek

The Insects

My mother kept a tin of buttons, saved over the years,
from which she would match, as closely as possible,
if one was lost.
It made a percussive rustle.
I was afraid she would drop it on the stairs
and it would fall open.
To collect all the buttons,
there would never be enough time.




Mid-June, Lament

We want Hell. And why not, it’s Summer.
The wind rustles the beaded curtain of the sycamore.
There’s a graduation party suave with Christmas lights
and an electric keyboardist rushing through the Barry Manilow songbook.
The extremists want Limbo.
God is tied up like a babysitter.




A.M.

Ninety degrees and I’m drinking hot coffee.
Bells and particles of light shoot like insects beyond the screen.
Early morning and the backyard trees are a canopy and a cave.
The soul runs to God to unmelt him.




Twilight

Same woman who loved you, leaves you.
And not just any woman, but that woman,
stirring her coffee, scraping the bottom of the cup,
your hand in hers, examining it,
like something she’s discovered at a fleamarket.




Untitled

Night turns into radio
& summer perfume.
The dark slathered on the roof
is my mother & father.
Slap my shoes together,
knock out the sparkle of sand
& lock my coffin.
I don’t want anything more.