John Mulcare
Falling from the Cusp of Spring
Anapestic wind presses
through the fields
slurring with sulfur
and rain. It’s spring
now. Storms break
with the frequency
of urgent speech.
Black mold has carved
itself in my car’s upholstery
like one of the great lakes.
I don’t mind the wet,
it’s heat that has killed
my inchoate thoughts,
pushed me toward
the blank, burnt-out
being of catatonia.
Where I come from,
rain falls until it’s another
way of thinking.
Soon, from my hands,
like rope, like spiders
scattering from a broken
sac, discontentment
and anger will unravel
into the slough’s cloak
of shallow mud and return
to where they belong.
This is a time of renewal.
What I place in the ground
will grow like a boy. Lightning
will let itself down like a ladder
into the dead and sunken fields.
John Mulcare is a poet from the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared in Salt Hill and is forthcoming in numerous journals.
Return to May 2023 Editon
Anapestic wind presses
through the fields
slurring with sulfur
and rain. It’s spring
now. Storms break
with the frequency
of urgent speech.
Black mold has carved
itself in my car’s upholstery
like one of the great lakes.
I don’t mind the wet,
it’s heat that has killed
my inchoate thoughts,
pushed me toward
the blank, burnt-out
being of catatonia.
Where I come from,
rain falls until it’s another
way of thinking.
Soon, from my hands,
like rope, like spiders
scattering from a broken
sac, discontentment
and anger will unravel
into the slough’s cloak
of shallow mud and return
to where they belong.
This is a time of renewal.
What I place in the ground
will grow like a boy. Lightning
will let itself down like a ladder
into the dead and sunken fields.
John Mulcare is a poet from the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared in Salt Hill and is forthcoming in numerous journals.
Return to May 2023 Editon