Featuring Ron Lucas

ELMER’S GLUE

I am no delicate flower.

I am a shattered, fine goblet.

Pieced back together with

Children’s paste.

The slightest touch.

The lightest breath.

And I may collapse into

An irreparable heap

Of tiny shards,

Too small,

Too sharp,

And dangerous

To ever

Even be

Picked up

Again.

Please,

Gently pad to the

Open window,

And door,

And close them softly

With your bleeding

fingers

on your way

out.

INFLUENZA AND… SOMETHING MUCH WORSE…

Have been ill of late,

Quite ill.

Wake each day with

A gasp,

Feverish, shivering,

And one

Word

Escaping dry, cracked lips.

I laugh.

It’s funny.

Apparently, I shall die

One day

With your

Name

Upon my tongue.

And I have not

Seen your

Face

Or

Heard your

Voice

For

Fourteen years.

… AND NOT CRONSHAW’S PERSIAN…

In the hall,

Outside my door,

“Big Steve” begs

For his life

At gun point.

“Shoot this mother—

Fucker, babe!”

Screams the man

Beating him, to

His lady,

Over and over.

“No, please, don’t!

Please don’t!”

Sobs Big Steve to

The man and

The lady,

Over and over.

In my place,

Inside my locked door,

I had no phone.

I could not help or

Even dare to make

A sound.

It was all over

In five minutes;

An eternity.

It was all over

A five dollar

Rug.

ANGEL OF MUNCHAUSENS

Where are you tonight?

No one knows.

As usual.

Who are you tonight?

I no longer know

Your name.

Your birthday is in a

Week.

I think.

We were young when

We met.

You were younger

Than I.

Are you in a hospital

Somewhere?

Are you comforted by

The sounds?

The sterile smell?

The needles

Piercing?

Does it take you

Home?

Wherever that

Was?

Our daughters are

Doing well.

Our granddaughter

Is cute,

Sweet, and smart.

I am doing

Okay.

Not that you should

Care.

My shrink asked

After you

Today.

Thought you might

Like that.

Well, I hope you enjoy

Your stay.

Get well soon.

Happy birthday.

I think.

Featuring Matthew Borczon

Killing Ghosts

in shaking

and sleepless nights

in flashbacks

brought on

by triggers

I barely recognize

in paranoid rituals

I follow like

a road to salvation

in the moments

between awake

and asleep

I walk with ghosts

ghosts of soldiers

with no names

of Marines

with no legs

of children

with missing hands

and open wounds

from playing

on battlefields

of burn victims

black as pitch

who could be

men or women

soldier or civilian

adult or child

all crumbling

in front of me

like charcoal

some carry equipment

suction pumps

and IV stands

with dirty dressings

over infected skin grafts

and I have found

nothing in 5 years

to make them

want to leave

so they stay

inside my head

behind my eyes

in the darkest

corners of my life

because even

after 5 years

I still can’t

find a way

to even try

to kill the ghosts

of people

I was supposed

to save.

Baby, what’s mine is yours

Tasting bile

in the

back of

my throat

from screaming

at my wife

until  I

am too

hoarse

to apologies

and too

scared

to tell

her it

was the

smell of

burning meat

as she

cooked

on a

hot day

that put

me back

in that uniform

in that hospital

again.

Night terrors 2

After a

long night

full of

bad dreams

and sweaty

sheets

a crow

caws shrill

to tell

me that

I am

already dead

and

that  my

body is

back in

Afghanistan

in 2011

I wake

asking

him to

tell me

something

I don’t

already know.

The lies we tell

Mine.

the food

is good

I like

the hours

I read

a lot

the air

does not

taste like

ash and

blood or

smell like

burning flesh

I’m too

busy to

miss home

my dreams

are not

filled with

the cries

of dying

children.

Yours.

you’re fine

it’s easier

than you

thought

and everything

is getting

done and

school keeps

the kids

too busy

to worry

about you

Ezra no

longer asks

if I

think you

will die

and Hannah

did not

cry all

day on

Christmas

holding the

card you

sent her

and no

you don’t

think this

will change

us at all.

  

In between

You were

the first

to try

to grant

me

absolution

the first

to tell

me don’t

be too

hard on

myself

you were

the last

as well

but in

between

is me

and blood

covered nightmares

and ash

covered memories

and missing limbs

and me.

Good Days

Some days

I even

remember

good things

skies clear

of helicopters

and warm

evenings with

a real

Cuban cigar

talking with

young soldiers

completely

unaware

of how

much of

this war

I would

bring home.

BIO: Matthew Borczon is a nurse and Navy sailor. He has written two books of poetry, A Clock of Human Bones from the yellow chair review press and Battle Lines from Epic Rites. This summer he will release Ghost Train through Weasel Press and Sleepless Nights and Ghost Soldiers from Grey Borders Press. He has four children three jobs and still manages to find time to write and publishes often in the small press.