By: Anthony Warnke
April Aubade
Light blues, dog energy.
Spring came on like strep.
I ordered you a Lyft, disabled
my alarm, and took in
your departing breath. You said:
“Sprite and soup. Gargle
with salt. Your health is
my health. Just. Rest.”
You waited on the deck
for Jamie in a Camry. Loose
blossoms reminded you
of death.
Focus Objects
The Orca mother carrying her dead calf for the fourth day straight. A man who takes his muffin without a plate. “Autumn
in New York.” My nightmare’s that
I’ll be on my bike, and I’ll stop at a red light, and I’ll be in a low gear, and I won’t be able to restart, and I’ll hold up traffic, and someone – another bicyclist – will go around me, and I’ll get honked at and honked at and honked at and flipped off and laughed at, then hit.
LOVINGKINDNESS
I rewarded my wife
with a tall boyfriend
and let my mom
run my life for a year.
This is compassion. It’s not
easy. Cross two lines,
and voila, the choice
is made for you. But
heaven or bust
is a false dichotomy.
Everyone has an angle.
For instance, on
my holy rectangle,
I keep typing out
LOVINGKINDNESS,
LOVINGKINDESS,
LOVINGKINDESS.
I bang out
LOVINGKINDNESS
like a mad man.
Kurt from IT suggests:
“Before we change
your password, let’s see
if your caps lock is on.”
Anthony Warnke’s poetry has appeared in Cimarron Review, North American Review, Sentence, and Sugar House Review, among other journals. He teaches writing at Green River College and lives in Seattle.