BLACK COILS
You will never escape the trap I’ve laid.
I know how to lure you. I’ve got the bait.
I’ve long stopped listening to what you said,
‘though your lies circulate inside my head,
barely intelligible, nursed by hate.
You will never escape the trap I’ve laid,
I imagine you’ll try. You’ll think that you’ve played
this game before. You’ll underestimate.
I’ve long stopped listening to what you said.
Your mouth moves—open, shut—yet you’re dead
to me, dead, somehow worse than dead of late.
You will never escape the trap I’ve laid.
My plan’s that well-conceived, that well-made,
a mousetrap that masquerades as fate.
I’ve long stopped listening to what you said.
All I hear are the words that got me in bed,
that phrase that you murmured on our third date:
“You will never escape the trap I’ve laid.”
I’ve long stopped listening to what you said.
SKYFALL
Have you ever looked up at the clouds
and worried they were below and you above?
(Never mind the surrounding crowd.)
For what’s up, what’s down on a world that’s round?
When does gravity’s pull become a shove?
Have you ever looked up at the clouds?
You could fall in reverse if the laws allowed
then let loose a scream indicative of…
Never mind. The surrounding crowd
isn’t likely to get entangled with such avowed
fears, my friend. Never mind those tears, my love.
Have you ever looked up at the clouds?
Is outer space a gnarled web or a threadbare shroud,
one vast oil spill or a black leather glove?
Never mind the surrounding crowd
with their uncapped heads uniformly bowed
over wireless phones pinging towers high above.
Have you ever looked up at the clouds,
never mind the surrounding crowd
BUBBLE GUM KNOT
What is in my mouth. What is in my heart.
What is on the very tip of my tongue.
What is in my soul. Where I ought to start.
Whence it all began. And from where I’ll part.
When the melody dies. When the song’s unsung.
What is in my mouth. What is in my heart.
How your kisses wound like a martial art
while my basic needs are dubbed dumb, far-flung.
What is in my soul. Where I ought to start.
You should know having launched the dart
that not only pierced, but poisoned. Stung.
What is in my mouth. What is in my heart.
It’s all gone wrong like a sudden fart,
or a shoe that’s mistread on some doggy dung.
What is in my soul. Where I ought to start.
I feel cheaper than snacks at the minimart,
and as low as a hammock poorly slung.
What is in my mouth. What is in my heart.
What is in my soul where I ought to start.
Heaven & Hell, a Villanelle
You can wish all you want you won’t go to Hell
that your Purgatory timeshare will be brief.
Your sins may be few. Perhaps God can tell
since your best and worst selves run in parallel,
and most lives are admixtures of joy and grief.
You can wish all you want. You won’t go to Hell
if you lead first with love. Heaven’s personnel
tends to favor one’s case if, in chief,
your sins may be few… perhaps. God can tell
the unkind zealot from a kind ne’er-do-well.
Leveraging neither religion nor disbelief,
you can wish all you want you won’t go to Hell,
but wishes won’t matter come that final death knell,
at which point a judgment is made sans debrief.
Your sins may be few. Perhaps God can tell
or Saint Teresa or the archangel Gabriel
or a lesser-known holy haloed in gold leaf.
You can wish all you want. You won’t go to hell.
Your sins may be few. Perhaps. God can tell.
A grantee of the Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation (2019), Curious Elixirs: Curious Creators (2021), and LMCC (2023), Drew Pisarra is the author of two poetry collections, Periodic Boyfriends (2023) and Infinity Standing Up (2019). His poetry has appeared everywhere from the Whitney Biennial 2022 to Analog sci-fi magazine.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 