The Moth's Dying Wish
Michael Arnzen
I watched a brown moth
trying to tuck its head
into the gap between
the foot of my lawn chair
and the hot concrete patio
its antennae lilting
then tucking down
as if to cover its fuzz eyes
its legs hurling its chin
into the crack then slowing
as its wings crisped and
quivered useless as litter
in the wind and when its poor
act of crawling ceased
I realized this was the first
time I've seen a bug
die of old age
and I kept watching the dead moth
wondering what might happen
if I wrapped it in a cocoon
wondering whether it would
transform into something else
but eventually some ants arrived
like prodigal children
climbing over the carpet
of its unblinking eyes
froming an undulating chrysalis
of black and I moved out of my chair
and stamped it down on top of it
Impressive
Michael Arnzen
He impressed me.
He was impressive.
He made an impression.
Why do we say impress
when we mean to press into
like a key in soft wax
or an inky nib on paper?
He imprints as much
as he impresses, presses into,
pressures into, presses.
Presses like a scalpel
against a stomach cellophaned
tight as a sandwich.
Presses like a playboy prick
curls sick against the virgin vulva.
Presses like a dirty muzzle
on the temple, cold metal
foreshadowing the bullet
nuzzled against the hammer
deep inside its chamber.
Why do we say impressive
when we mean something
about him penetrates us
deep like lances of pain
and pleases us just the same.
Why do we speak at all,
when he could shove it
in our mouth to shut us up
forever. For every impression
there is an equal and opposite
depression. He doesn't recognize
this -- he just plunges right in
And for some reason
we fold and admire him.
Slip
Michael Arnzen
I always thought skeletons
were a horrorshow cliche,
a textbook gimmick to keep
the kiddies turning the pages,
a Halloween candy marketing scheme --
till I stepped out of my front door
and right out my sheath of skin --
a marionette of shockwhite
xylophoning down the steps
eventually recognizing the timber
of my neighbor's screams
quivering everywhere on the doorstep
in the cold chambers of my marrow
Artwork by Deena Warner
Envelope (for b. little)
Michael Arnzen
you can stamp me
underfoot
and postmark my face
with your heel
but if you sort me out
of the junk and decide
to finally open me up
please tear carefully
along the edge
for this is also
my return envelope
All poems by:
Michael A. Arnzen
www.gorelets.com
