THREE POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER DEWEESE
The Wizard
Where is my wand?
The snow is getting thick
and I want a dome to live in.
Tricillian, I mean it when I tell you
all of this is evidence.
I mean it when I forget to mention
the evidence is against you.
I am sitting in the bedroom,
trying to wipe the sky clean
while watching this movie.
The stars are easiest,
then the planes, the clouds.
Green-light the owl incursion now!
Folksong
Tusk, don’t leave me withered.
Spring, butter my skin.
All night, I’m rented out:
the somnambulist blues again.
All of this is dangerous.
The blankets. The compass.
What it means to be a hero
shifts inside me like an extinct wind.
Like some false god
put a fume within me and lit.
Shannon, I am so sorry every night
for whatever I have done
and for the certainty
with which I can’t remember it.
Deady
The thing about being dead is
you keep dying forever
in the spangled bones
of those freaks who
must have believed in you.
The fields are blindfolded
and the shadows are contagious.
The pastures keep wilting
because the night is conducting
a whispering campaign
in league with all the feelings.
It’s a cheap place, this heart of mine,
and it’s covered in blood,
and it’s that way by design.
* all poems from The Black Forest, Octopus Books, 2012.
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