Conor Bracken
AT THE C̶A̶N̶C̶E̶R̶ CENTER
Noon humid but freshened
by drizzle. The hospital parking lot
that charges 5 an hour no matter how sick.
How close to death. How little space there is
between the periodic whimpers of this woman
I wheel through the soft halls of this place
that is built to undo what built it. Oedipal,
I know, to slay your progenitor or –trix
but I am tired of the Greeks,
their myths that don’t deliver to me
the particular shovel my people
buried sinners in the bogs with,
that hacked many holes in the earth
for an olive grove that still yields its sour fruit.
The haft, blade long ago snapped off,
whittled to a cane for a shepherd
stumping between scattered stands of loblolly
marauders felled and fitted into ships,
leaving these difficult fields to slalom
rainwater to the sea
with half-hearted resistance.
Where is the path through this difficult field
the water has not carried off?
The carpet―
heather green, maroon—mutes our motion
but the signs say we’re getting close.
And though we can’t see it from this hallway
the sun has passed its apex,
is heading downwards,
revolving past the clouds that someone
has loosely tacked below the horizon,
horizon from the Greek
for bound or bounded
or maybe the Latin
for the curved part of a plow.
Conor Bracken's work has been nominated for the Best of the Net, and appears or is forthcoming in Handsome, the minnesota review, Ninth Letter, and Puerto del Sol, among others. Originally from Virginia, he lives in Texas, where he received his MFA from the University of Houston and was a poetry editor for Gulf Coast.
Return to May 2016 Edition
Noon humid but freshened
by drizzle. The hospital parking lot
that charges 5 an hour no matter how sick.
How close to death. How little space there is
between the periodic whimpers of this woman
I wheel through the soft halls of this place
that is built to undo what built it. Oedipal,
I know, to slay your progenitor or –trix
but I am tired of the Greeks,
their myths that don’t deliver to me
the particular shovel my people
buried sinners in the bogs with,
that hacked many holes in the earth
for an olive grove that still yields its sour fruit.
The haft, blade long ago snapped off,
whittled to a cane for a shepherd
stumping between scattered stands of loblolly
marauders felled and fitted into ships,
leaving these difficult fields to slalom
rainwater to the sea
with half-hearted resistance.
Where is the path through this difficult field
the water has not carried off?
The carpet―
heather green, maroon—mutes our motion
but the signs say we’re getting close.
And though we can’t see it from this hallway
the sun has passed its apex,
is heading downwards,
revolving past the clouds that someone
has loosely tacked below the horizon,
horizon from the Greek
for bound or bounded
or maybe the Latin
for the curved part of a plow.
Conor Bracken's work has been nominated for the Best of the Net, and appears or is forthcoming in Handsome, the minnesota review, Ninth Letter, and Puerto del Sol, among others. Originally from Virginia, he lives in Texas, where he received his MFA from the University of Houston and was a poetry editor for Gulf Coast.
Return to May 2016 Edition