Five Poems, Joseph Hargraves

Five Poems By Joseph Hargraves

“A Catholic Mass,” “Fever,” “I am a Clod,” “The Fan,” and “All These Winters.” Joseph Hargraves

A Catholic Mass

I was sitting on cement steps

watching the Puerto-Rican Church
across the street. They were

holding Mass outside because

it was so hot in New York.

The Priest stood on a platform

surrounded by kneeling people-

The rest of the congregation

stood, dressed-up, in the street.

A man jumped onto the stage

where everyone was praying.

He started screaming at one

woman: “Bitch, I told you

I’m tired of this church shit.”

No one moved.

The woman got up and said:

“Jesus,” in a soft, high pitch.

She reached into her purse,

brought out a straight-razor,

and deftly slit his throat.

He looked surprised, grabbed his neck,

fell to his knees moaning:

“Forgive me. Forgive me.”

Blood was squirting from his neck

onto her dress. Everybody started

running: “Jesus help! Jesus! Jesus!”

He shook until the blood

stopped coming from him.

The cops came and she

was on her knees beside

his dead body, kissing him,

murmuring “Miguel, forgive me”

as they hand-cuffed her.


1

The bedsheets were tundras.
I lay frozen, listening
to my rheumatic heart’s
offbeat after the beat.

It began to snow.

My fingers became men
in snowshoes and parkas
seeking warmth in caves
of feather pillows.

I followed them in from the cold,
and by the fire read
“Beauty and the Beast,”
being the Beast,
with tender heart tortured by cruel Beauty,
until she amazed me
with the simplicity
of her requiting.

The lights went out.

As I fell to sleep
big hands came from the dark
to cover my mouth.
Were they my mother’s or father’s hands?
If I could pry the fingers loose,
to whom would I scream?

2

In the morning I sat concealed by curtains
staring out the living room window,
its corners dusted with crystals by Jack Frost
whose tracks I never found
among the wisps of grass
poking through sheets of snow.

I saw birds with rapid heartbeats
in bare branches of apple and peach trees,
and a ghost, making my movements,
separated from me
by the glass.

A glowing lion stuck its head out of the sky
roaring as the wind threw snow against the window,
making cold sounds
as my fever soared.

Hiking back to bed
cutting the vines
that grabbed at arms and legs.
I dropped a bean every few feet
someday to find my way back
from the arctic.

3

Water from the syringe
dissolved the pile of white
in the spoon,
which was placed
over candle flame to cook;

a piece of cigarette filter
through which the solution would be drawn,
was dropped into the spoon.

Tourniquet tightened,
vein slapped to pop it up,
point pressed into vein
until a bubble of blood rose up the syringe
and I loosened the tie,
pushed the plunger.

On my bed,
in a field of poppies,
I slept well.

I am a Clod

“Write a poem I can understand,”

he cried. I shied away from his

logic. Dodged him. Dogs bark.

I know what he meant, and means-

The son-of-a-bitch. She goes, he goes,

logos. What can you understand?

I can only approximate- by proxy

write a poem. Automatic writing?

Complete the following sentence:

The function of a poem is…

For the birds. Ornithology.

What am I talking about? I

didn’t know I was. Peter pick a

peck a pica. His poetry appears

to be an expression of vagina

envy. Freud. Aviary. Cage. Shelter.

Would you spell sounds that birds

make “t,” “w,” “e,” “e,” “t,”

or “c,” “h,” “i,” “r,” “p”?

Spelling bee? Apiary. BZZZZ?

The B flies not. A nature poem:

I am a clod. I mean cloud!

bringing showers.

When I got home from work
the fan you borrowed
was standing at my front door.
I walked it inside and plugged it in:
Unintelligible phrases wafted out.
Then it clearly said, “Trust me,
I’ll be good for you.”
I stood back. It rattled:
“Come closer. Open your shirt.”
I turned the switch to high.
“I’ve always wanted someone
to listen to me,” it purred.
“Shut up,” I said
ripping out the plug
and putting the machine
into a garbage bag.
The bag began to grow.
I ran to the closet.
The bag exploded
filling the room with the
vinegar of stinking feet.
“I’ll show you how to get close
to someone,” it cooed
then hopped up
onto my bed and smiled:
“Let me see you naked.
With the lights on.”
“I’m shy,” I pleaded.
“Pooh,” it taunted.
Its blades spinning slowly:
“Kiss me. I like to kiss.”
It whirred, then blew me
a kiss. I dry heaved.
The phone rang.
“I’ll answer,” it said.
“What’s up,” it smarmed
into the receiver, “Joseph
can’t get to the phone.
I’ll tell him you called.”
I grabbed a blanket and
wrapped it around the
contrivance. It forced
a warm wind of farts
through the plastic.
I threw it into the tub
and turned the faucets.
“Trust me,” it sparked with its
breath of cigarettes and cavities.
I felt the bone jolt of electricity.
The water began to whirlpool and
splash onto the floor. Through
a tunnel of water it seductively
hummed, “Trust me.”
The water churned:
“Come closer. Closer.”
The fan began to dissolve.
“No you don’t. You
son of a bitch,” I screamed
plunging my hands into
the muck. I grabbed it
by its reptilian handle
tossed it into the toilet
flushed, and watched
that bastard die.

All These Winters

Rain falls on

last night’s snow.
All these winters

and other seasons
the hours and

divisions.
Today

I choose to believe
that you’re just late

for lunch
even as I remember

that spring-morning
when I opened my fist

to the dry scratch
of your ashes

and dropped them
into the wind.

Joseph Hargraves has been published, or will be published in up-coming issues of: The New York Quarterly, The Guardian UK, The South African Times, Full of Crow, Calliope Nerve, Zygote in my Coffee, on-line and print editions: Gutter Eloquence Magazine, Black-Listed, Asphodel Madness, Opium 2.0, Haggard & Halloo, and others.