Luke Roe / 4.2 Poetry / Fall, 2016




This is not my room, littered
Pint bottles and crusty dishes, the ruins
Of last night’s binge
Do not corrode the floor
This is not the third or fourth or fifth morning of hangovers
(Four moons around the planet furthest from ours)
This is not a thinning bank account
A face growing in texture and droop
A face growing on a face
(Craters on the side most seen)
This is not my leopard liver,
Or a cry for help

This is not my
Poached body
On the living room leather
Dry lightning in the damp tawdry
Diadem (these, the dried ancient lake beds)
That is not my child sitting alone
In his television chair
Chewing on a blend of channels
These aren’t my stomach pains,
Or cries for help

This will not be
My future-
Rooms stacked with dusty chairs
Rooms stacked with ashes
Rooms stacked with myself-
Fattening beneath a husk of
Fly paper and its mummies
My house will not shrink into
Bones and loose skin
Piles of envelopes that were supposed
To carry
A stranger’s cries for help

This will be my body in the morning-
Damp and unclothed, feathered in the early light
Getting dressed without the window blinds drawn
Getting dressed with water in my chest
Opening all the letters I have
Addressed to myself, opening
All the letters I’ve neglected to answer.

Crash Dummy

It’s amazing how the body takes over
How it drives my car after work
And pulls into the grocery store parking lot
How it saunters on its own to the beer aisle
How its hand reaches to pull a six pack from the shelf
How it opens the cans and orders the person
To fuck up the body as much as possible
Orders it to take it as far as possible
Even as the soul is clearly crying
in the produce section
And the person is no doubt subject to
Intense fear and warning.
The alarms tonight, they fire
Still I take up a glass and just pour


unnamedLuke Roe is a father and poet from Spokane, WA. His poems have appeared recently in Wire Harp, RiverLit and Ricochet. He was RiverLit Magazine’s 2015 Poet in Residence.


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