Edward Peterson
About the Author
Edward Peterson is an artist/poet. He lives in Lockport, IL and grows vegetables to feed his children and alien wife. His work has most recently appeared in After Hours and Reverly.
Waking Jack
Said Sophie to Jack,
"Do you feel
distant from your family?"
& the answer shot
"of course,"
and when the gun refrained
Jack's mouth collapsed
on gums, the way a week's decay
makes the Jack-O-Lantern appear
more human and frightening
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Fold up the faces
Don the ritual smocks
Pinch closed all the beaks
Flock silent as raindrops
Then, if you please,
the speeches and finger foods
freckled cubes of cheese.
"Jack was so plump & round
& I loved him from every angle.
He was my march of time
my most effective line.
He was my helplessness, my fear.
Queer how the snarl
on his lip endeared
right until the end
& I have never grown a pie
& I have never known a friend
never nothing really
until this very moment, when
now I know it all,
free & sickening as the fall."
Sophie's face crumpled
(weakened, but as art stronger still
for the shrinking of sly smiles,
grimaces of rot, likely as not
from a week on the sill)
yes, it crumpled, pushing wrinkles toward her lips
when Sophie lit a cigarette
then smoothed the black skirt on her hips.
Poetry
maybe there hung a light on a pole in an alley
and maybe it made just the top of the car shine
and maybe there was a cricket that chirped for its life
as the days turned cold
and not enough eggs
or new crickets
or high grass
the trees had certainly been cut back
to accommodate the phone wires
maybe the neighbor lady opened an envelope
and cringed inward for many minutes
and maybe she shut it all down
preferring the antithought
she certainly rose to go to work in the morning
though those who knew her would say she looked
uncharacteristically disheveled
Frank had always opened the mail
and maybe she thought of that final beer
sweating a circle on the trash-can lid as smoke
curled in and out of the light
and maybe her knuckles whitened on the wheel
there certainly was the street roar
of rubber and glass
hard and poetic
bereft of warmth or friend
