The View from the Trees Is Not the View from the Watchtower
The villagers drive the monster
Into the woods and make
The mistake of following it. A torch
Lights only so far.
The rest is dark as the fear
That drives them on. The monster
Has had enough
Of fear—how many
Villages? How many
Pitchforks and curses?
He circles round, back
To the village, to its empty homes,
Open doors, and fires
Banked to keep the dark
Outside. A kettle
Of potato soup is almost
Ready, and a loaf of rye,
And a story to scare the children
To sleep in their dark rooms.
While Flight Is Impossible, Escape Is Still an Option
In the last great war, I was
A coward and so I volunteered to lead
The charge. I drew my saber, impaled
A daisy, and ran like hell, screaming
Please don’t kill me, toward
The enemy line. A bee buzzed.
One cloud on the horizon looked
Just like a puppy. And I ran,
Screaming my fear, mad with it, but
Because the enemy fled, their backs
Bobbing over the horizon, I cannot
Tell you anything about bravery.
A Scream Is Useful in Moments of Great Pain
The sun is an accident, as much
As chance is an accident, as much
As a blessing is an accident, as much
As a curse, as much as the union
Of sperm and egg and the fortune
Of being born to surfeit,
As much as finding yourself
In sunshine, content with the world
That has become accidentally yours.
The Short Walk to the Bus Stop Is a Longer Walk Home
Early this morning, a full
Moon, more pale than
The pale western sky
—Everything is separate, no
Matter how close
It seems, even the air
In my clogged lungs, even
The pale moon in my eye,
Even my elder daughter
Whom I’ve left at the school
Bus stop, who is,
Day by day, learning
The lesson I am teaching her, how
Someday to leave me.
Exploring the Lost Continent
A jungle has grown in the living room.
The kitchen is swamp, and deep in it,
The remains of animals not unlike us
Become fuel for the future. We have lost
The spelling of words. We have lost the sheets,
Washcloths, and maps. The neighbors
Have gone cannibal. They miss us.
Their longing for us sharpens their teeth.
We are made perfect in their memory, so
Drag your dugout ashore and ring
The bell. The fire ants spell out welcome
Before they bite. It’s like we never left.
Transparency (October)
A striation of sky, heavier clouds
And lighter, and bands of weak light
Where the clouds are thinnest, and below them,
A leafy ridge, green and rusty
And, in spots, bare where the leaves
No longer are, and sky
Again, although so low
In the distance that it is almost dark
Among those branches gone empty,
And in one of those trunks, a hole
That goes straight through to night.
Copyright © 2024 Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
Jeff Mock is the author of Ruthless. His poems appear in American Poetry Review, The Atlantic Monthly, The Georgia Review, New England Review, The North American Review, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. He directs the MFA program at Southern Connecticut State University and lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with his wife, Margot Schlipp, and their daughters, Paula and Leah.
photo: Henry Cherry