John Poch
Cause
Daddy, she says, the Mallards are pretending
they’re planes. We need the elegant dumb luck
a child designs from cause. And one might think
of the jet that made the Hudson River landing
last year. Like ducklings on a metal duck
the ring-necked passengers burst out on the brink.
Some kind of William Carlos Williams depending
upon a ditched wet vehicle’s surprise
of emptiness and waiting, suspended in ink.
A bird descends, and even God is baptized.
Thirst, drink.
The Lion
Dirty boulder of a ghost in high grass,
you are the subtle turn from fire to smoke.
Your face is even stacked like altar stones.
Let this mountain be removed into the sea,
and you lift and walk and toss the wavering plain
that shudders with the weight of a strong and hated king,
oblivious. The flies have brought their prayers
to your eyes, and you look away like yesterday,
yesterday’s white eyes of the antelope nearly dead, dragged
into nothing but the oblivion of a mouth and a self.
John Poch has recent and forthcoming poems in Yale Review, Poetry, Southwest Review, and other journals.
Return to March 2013 Edition
Daddy, she says, the Mallards are pretending
they’re planes. We need the elegant dumb luck
a child designs from cause. And one might think
of the jet that made the Hudson River landing
last year. Like ducklings on a metal duck
the ring-necked passengers burst out on the brink.
Some kind of William Carlos Williams depending
upon a ditched wet vehicle’s surprise
of emptiness and waiting, suspended in ink.
A bird descends, and even God is baptized.
Thirst, drink.
The Lion
Dirty boulder of a ghost in high grass,
you are the subtle turn from fire to smoke.
Your face is even stacked like altar stones.
Let this mountain be removed into the sea,
and you lift and walk and toss the wavering plain
that shudders with the weight of a strong and hated king,
oblivious. The flies have brought their prayers
to your eyes, and you look away like yesterday,
yesterday’s white eyes of the antelope nearly dead, dragged
into nothing but the oblivion of a mouth and a self.
John Poch has recent and forthcoming poems in Yale Review, Poetry, Southwest Review, and other journals.
Return to March 2013 Edition