Four Poems by Alex Carrigan

 

 

Once again, I

am reminded of

that song from Once.

 

Again:

 

 

but my sinking boat

is making love

to Charybdis while,

once again,

colored strings are

falling slowly

at my wife’s feet.

 

Once again,

 

but again, once I’ve

set my ship towards

Ithaca,

 

I’m once again

wondering if the currents

will show me the kindness

I’ve never shown them

gratitude for.

 

 

and once again, I’ll 

make it now,

but I don’t know if

I’ll ever once see sand again.

 

 

 

 

There’s only been a few times I let the noise write with me.

          Sometimes it brings me dew drops bursting on an overlook,

or the last toll of a bell. Once it brought the sound of an egg cracking on linoleum.

 

However, it has also brought me words I quill into my flesh

          instead of on the parchment before me, so I try to ensure

that whatever noise comes doesn’t fill my inkwell with blood from my ears.

 

 

 

 

Poetry can’t be contained

inside of these couplets,

 

but it can exist in the

stanza break (although

 

maybe there’s more than

the meta when it comes to

 

saying where poetry can

and can’t be) and the parenthesis.

 

I believe, much like Elizabeth,

it can be in corners and clam shells

 

(did you like that call back?), or

maybe it doesn’t have to be anywhere.

 

I can say this is a poem, that it has

some truths about the world (doubt it),

 

but maybe what matters more is that

it was an attempt, a good try,

 

and isn’t that enough sometimes?

(I hope so, because otherwise

 

I’m not sure how else to end this piece).

 

 

 

 

I need to think about what I can

take from our home that will

make you want to stay in touch.

 

I’ll leave the albums and pictures,

won’t touch the urn on the mantle.

I do still love your family, after all.

 

You never cared for the DVD collection

nor the stereo system, so I’ll load 

those in the U-Haul tomorrow morning.

 

Your clothes won’t fit me,

I bought all of our kitchen appliances

except for the toaster you

 

said still worked ten years on.

It’s not until I look above

the kitchen doorway I make a choice.

 

The palm you got from the last

Palm Sunday we attended, wedged between

the crucifix and the wall.

 

I’ll take the palm, make sure not to

break it as I load it in my car,

then hope you realize it’s gone once I am.

 

Maybe you’ll call me about it,

maybe you’ll forget it until next Holy Week.

I was the one to care most about the traditions

 

after you buried them with your dad.

But I hope this is one you care about, even though 

I plan to burn the palm once you forget me.

 

---

 

 

 

Alex Carrigan is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in HAD, fifth wheel press, Sage Cigarettes, JAKE, Inlandia Journal, and more. Visit carriganak.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @carriganak for more info.