Poetry selection from the 2007 issue
by Baron Wormser
Frayed—and not only around his
Weary eyes but in his once staunch
If I’ve started his elegy yet.
I tell him I don’t go in
For that line of goods until
The proper season arrives.
He tells me that’s one reason
I’m bad with money. “The winter trade
Show is in July. Everyone knows that
Except you. You think living
Momentarily is genius. Ech.”
Bax mumbles, spits, and coughs.
I reach over to touch his cheek,
Feel the lean beard and creases
That run from his mouth to somewhere
Deep within the grieving earth.
Bax knows what I’m thinking
And shrills a few strangled notes
Of opera—dull death
Mocked by brisk life. Bax giggles—
A worn-out, sepia wheeze.
Brown eyes glister with pain:
“For a fact, I fucked up big-time.”
Both moody so near the abyss
We let the words subside.
My left hand grips his right
Like science clutching a penny.