By: Isaac George Lauritsen
Then robed and donning Birkenstocks
the Word lets from its beard
directives of fish infused stew
to river-teal the tale of parishioners.
Our parents – steeple-tall, ripped on folgers –
lutheran cha-cha, spread sunshine
on our rye bread to divinate the ice cream.
We depart as scarves, parkas
stuffed with styrofoams of casserole
into the lampposted night. There, the siblings
toss sleet. Their love a thrashing wren.
Soon as we get cozy as a minivan,
potholes lunch on snow
so Mom sings our cartoons to blip.
We shenanigan, revolt with teeth
and think us our ancestral cats.
We scope out plastic shaping eggs the rabbit laid.
We fry the bees we battle
with tennis tools and rack.
Spring the berry of our breeze-joy
sprung up in afternoon
by sandies crumbed at corner lip.
Oh sugar, your loll. We deep-nap
on dogged recliners, wake up older
as if time’s the fiction of a book.
Our throats pound cans. We beer-hue.
We whiskey ‘neath the yard-magnolia.
We gig grocery bagging, pinch pennies
so as to later funny-green our brains.
We leery hear fate’s stony speech:
come gather, ye steam warped baseball gloves.
All ye who lawn your dreams —
the mowers won’t till dawn mow.
into a peach
to taste a strike
in the distance
my eyes and tongue
are not gigantic
my teeth don’t
pinch a cloud
to drip a shock
the world is
it keeps in it
all that has passed
now a green
now a sleeping
line of cars
once the bush
now the mug
from parting sight
from the bush
birds turn into
the sky’s loud gray
then go inside
my normal house
where it has never rained.
Isaac George Lauritsen is a poet and illustrator. His work can be found, or is forthcoming, in Bennington Review, Full Stop, Hobart Pulp, Jabberwock Review, Lost Pilots Lit, mutiny! magazine, Muzzle Magazine, The Shore, Soundings East, Tilted House Review, TIMBER, Your Impossible Voice, on a broadside from Octopus Books, and elsewhere. He served as Associate Poetry Editor for Bayou Magazine. He writes copy for money. He lives in New Orleans.