four poems

by Eric Subpar

Love Language

If I were living any other life,

I'd kill myself. As soon as I could

walk, I'd walk off a cliff.

Once I could tie my shoelaces,

I'd tie them into nooses. I'd try

to be out by preschool. Kindergarten

at the latest.

I'd reject any religion that did not

recognize reincarnation in its tenets,

in hopes of returning one day

to my life.

I'd spend millennia crawling into traffic,

wrapping umbilical cords around my throat,

for it would be a perversion of experience

to live any life but

mine.

Goddess of the Hunt in Zoetrope

She is the stake and the fire

But never the witch.

But sometimes the witch

But not the stake nor fire

And it is the fool's folly to lay eyes lax,

To perceive opposing icons as one.

The Sinkhole is Yawning Again, Dear

We aren't whispers but the weight of whispers,

I always remind you, we aren't bothering no one.

You put your face in my hands and I threaten

to hold you in that position until we croak.

We never learned to live within our means. The

Oven is a mess and hasn't worked in weeks.

But I got your face in my hands and I threaten

to lift you to the moon, or at least to the holes

in our ceiling where the light churns the mass

of rodents you jokingly call pets but have yet to name.

I have gotten into pickling; seed hoarding. I arch my back

to keep from drowning in my la z boy. We are alright,

us pre-mole folk. Anxious but alright.

We've been supplied pot and Spotify

but must rely on each other for therapy.

Your face isn't heavy, but I still dread the day

I drop you down the sinkhole. I fear I have not

the courage to immediately follow, for I am no gin blossom.  

I told you my mom loves me but only as proof

of her ability to love. Does that count?

There are bunches of flowers that forget to rot

but they have always stunk like iridescent puddles

outside of truck stops. We are too white trash to house

fresh cut dahlias. They require a tender hand

and we are brutes at our core, we future Morlocks.

Plus the water's been off for weeks. The world

is a beautiful place, my dear, if only we could afford it.

You tend to my open wounds and though I couldn't

do without you, I berate you and your miles of pilfered

gauze, your slipshod fumbling of medical tape.

We don't deserve the miracles of the modern age, but

stare away at your phone, my dear. For the wallpaper

is melting and the tv overheats during basketball games.

We should have picked up kayaking when we had the chance.

At this rate, we'll be in our fifties before we can buy a kayak.

We are aging out of our kayak era, love. We are doomed

to be springtime joggers and ill-committed hobbyists

reassuring ourselves of the coming year. 

The year in which my poetry collections sell. My novels too.

Your boss will give you that raise she promised.

This year we'll breathe consecutive sighs of relief

and we will ride the wave of inflation like a bleached blond.

We will stop ordering Arby's or at least

adopt a taste for the healthier part of the menu.

The smaller curly fry.  With the maw widening, maybe

we could move up the hill where our friends live.

Perhaps the check engine light will just shut itself off.

Then again, we've always meant to travel. Let's journey

to the center of the Earth. I've heard Machu Pichu

has gone corporate and Ankor Wat is a lot smaller

than you'd think. The sinkhole seems easier. It's right there.

It's the only proof of God to which we are allowed access.

There's faith to be found in the reliability of a chasm.

That's what the religious billboard across the street says,   

And though we've never believed in gravity, we do trust it

to perform its duty.

Valentina, do you lose this game often?

The one where

                        two ghosts

                                    encircle each other

            slowly

                        methodically

                        closing the emptiness

between them until they float right through

                        each other and

                                    back out

                                                            into

                                                                        space.

Photo of Eric Subpar

BIO: Eric Subpar (@EricSubpar) is a poet from Washington State whose work has appeared in Poetry Bus, Don’t Submit, and Hobart. His debut novel is forthcoming from Pig Roast Publishing.