I have some surgery ideas
that involve technology:
One: bright guns:
catalyzed by children weeping
so hard were you to cover
them with construction paper
from their moustacheless noses
up, it would look as if
they were smiling horny, God-
In a warm green lobby,
Franky's bony arms were folded,
Lucy's acne, popped to the gloss floor
like scales, Henry's handsome, Pacing
the paper to itself
behind the head, mask-like,
with wet chewing gum,
careful! watch the hair,
and cut little eye holes,
It is how the bright guns
grow bright. Yes you are part of it.
Brian, our green-haired neighbor, scrapes beetles from plundered raspberry leaves into an empty rootbeer bottle. Empty but for the she-cricket, who squeaks at this bronze sleet, braces herself and already, her genitalia are gone.
The Japanese beetle is the wolverine of the northern garden. It is a hard worker and an adulterer.
Children check your raspberry caps before doing anything insane.
Grandpa looks up from a book and calls Brian a nazi and a pig. Brian looks up from the eye of the rootbeer bottle and calls Grandpa a deck-plant, then rummages through the garage for a can of gas. The beetles are having lackluster after-meal sex and conking out right in the middle of it—they notice something strong in their backs that moves to their throats and then they die.
Brian drops a match in the bottle, snorts, rides home on a dirt bike. I sit Indian-style and watch it shrink.
NATHAN PARKER’s recent poems appear or are forthcoming in American Letters & Commentary, Colorado Review, Quarterly West, Octopus, Swink, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife, Christie, and one-year-old son, Noah, in Alabama, where he teaches creative writing and literature at the University of Alabama. Right now he is reading and loving two books: G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy and Jean Valentine’s Door in the Mountain. This is his second appearance in The Adirondack Review.