Jackson Pollock in a Moment of Lucidity
There’s a song sung out of tune that’s rumored to break the bones of boys, rumored to stir birds from the coal chutes of languished barns. It’s when they carpet bomb the field with diamonds that we understand the pressure needed for chest compressions, gossamer splinters pulled to pieces by the sailcloth of wings. How the boy asleep on the laundry room floor insinuates remorse, how my father’s hand waving goodbye implies an archaic windmill whirling punch-drunk in a flooded field. The boy and his twelve years know nothing of the bottle rocket cutting a path through overcast or the doorknobs aligned like stars. But what goes unsaid is expressed in the corollas of my mother’s dress, marked in my sister’s bed made from a dresser drawer. I’ll pull later, from the stomach of a bird, enough ash to reconstruct the object and forget the quickness in living.
Pass the Blackout
You should know, sweet sailor,
that every time the boatswain blows
sleepy taps into the misery pipe,
a corsage of sea salt
blossoms on the wrists of standby wives
sequestered in cap sleeves
and hot copper headaches.
You should know the storm flag
is saluted when thunderclap
erases the strategy in our smiles
and braids our breath into aiguillettes.
Fieldstrip the stars like
the cherry of a cigarette,
watch them fall windward as
gravity warps our chest medals into lifeboats,
our dress whites into
hospital gowns.
Goodnight nurse, ghost of Joan,
Before your dreams run aground
know sweet sailor:
There’s a red phone at the
bottom of every ocean
there’s a seabag full of sleep.
About the author:
Brandon Courtney spent four years in the United States Navy. His poetry is forthcoming or appears in Best New Poets 2009, Linebreak, and the Los Angeles Review. When not writing, he obsessively collects records from the early nineties. He will be attending the M.F.A. program at Hollins University in the fall.
