Gumball Poetry 1999
Nothing Right or Left
Curtains replaced by a nailed blanket,
Jesus snapped off at the wrists
and ankles, her grandmother's plastic crucifix,
each echo, You worthless son of a bitch.
You did it this time. She's gone.
He pours the rest of the gin on ice,
lights a joint on the electric range,
draws smoke deep, clamps back a cough.
No guts for suicide. He can't shake
the figure of a woman's nude corpse
stretched out on the bedroom floor -
nylons knotted around her neck.
How long has it been since she left him
to sicken and fend for himself?
He picks the scab on the back of his hand.
Blood spatters the counter, his socks,
the floor as he rifles through empty kitchen
drawers for towels he cannot find.
Slumped on a frayed armchair, he becomes
the hum of the refrigerator -
empty as beer bottles at his feet.
Out front a vehicle rolls to a stop.
Gravel pops him upright in his chair.
Dogs bark; a car door squeaks and slams;
sacks crackle in somebody's arms. Spike
heels tap out hope and alarm,
then fade down the sidewalk and are gone.
-Mark Gibbons
For more: http://www.gumballpoetry.com/poetry/gibbons2.html
Curtains replaced by a nailed blanket,
Jesus snapped off at the wrists
and ankles, her grandmother's plastic crucifix,
each echo, You worthless son of a bitch.
You did it this time. She's gone.
He pours the rest of the gin on ice,
lights a joint on the electric range,
draws smoke deep, clamps back a cough.
No guts for suicide. He can't shake
the figure of a woman's nude corpse
stretched out on the bedroom floor -
nylons knotted around her neck.
How long has it been since she left him
to sicken and fend for himself?
He picks the scab on the back of his hand.
Blood spatters the counter, his socks,
the floor as he rifles through empty kitchen
drawers for towels he cannot find.
Slumped on a frayed armchair, he becomes
the hum of the refrigerator -
empty as beer bottles at his feet.
Out front a vehicle rolls to a stop.
Gravel pops him upright in his chair.
Dogs bark; a car door squeaks and slams;
sacks crackle in somebody's arms. Spike
heels tap out hope and alarm,
then fade down the sidewalk and are gone.
-Mark Gibbons
For more: http://www.gumballpoetry.com/poetry/gibbons2.html
posted by Sean Gibbons at 3:17 PM
2 Comments:
Mark, I heard of you through Fact & Fiction's Folio newsletter (I'm their sales rep for HarperCollins). Good poems, especially Nothing Left or Right. Great title! The cover of Blue Horizon caught my eye; the rear-view mirroring a similar horizon as the one in front of it. It gives an idea that people are always returning to the same place, no matter where they are physically heading. Very good stuff!
Bob,
If you're interested in seeing more of Marks poetry, please contact him at marcogibbo@yahoo.com
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