Chris Suda – THREE POEMS

Old Bones

 

These relics weren’t always disguised by sleet.
That letter resting between the envelope’s wheat-

thinned lips will sit unfinished, indelible
and shapeless as most evenings are. This man, unavailable,

lean, would never have read past the stub,
why the trouble, why the bother she’d say. Now her ink that flubbed

the lines is splitting, and the water we sip has lost its luster. The tissues
are still there, mapped out as at most funerals—fashioned to carry

the worry, caress anchored blame. She holds her image as his
blank reflection: the organless frame of a carcass, rawboned,

whimpering. Most ends begin the same in church: the cross
a fable, the garden in her mind consumed.

The exhibition of perpetual time, she said in greasy
rhythms, a spoken reminder never that necessary. A sleazy

nostalgia crept along the shallows of her spine. The drapes
along the window unloaded the room’s light: a pro-bono

agreement she tailored for herself. She eyed the letter on the floor,
placed it atop her unshelled lamp, bulb fingering the ink

until a lobster-flushed hue trilled down each corner; mending
a red sky against her stale bones and the year’s cracked lips.

.

Midnight’s Adult Cinema

 

At times this place is twice the scene of war.

A tit can flash, crowd the eyes, yet our cheeks

fail to even mime a subtle blush. Light

blows down each aisle revealing my place

in last row. Vinyl seats butter my blue

jeans while a woman tries to sleep against

my crimson button-down, her breaths attempt

to gush like mine. I could wake her, but her

rhythm pleases me. That slow and steady

draft leaps between her lips like the ocean

carries the tides away then in. Lifting my

neck towards the screen the eyes draw symbols

of cunts with hollow faces. The woman

still asleep beside me yawns the blues in peace.

.

Intermission

 

Daddy’s terrified. He’s

that kind, liberal man

stuck between films that

we can never leave alone. He

buttons us up, leaves

us flushed with clatter that

spirals through his fingertips then deep

into us. Then the evening

came; bottles removed us one

by one until they became the

only audience in world.

We went into

our bedrooms, poured ourselves

between the sheets, and gave birth

to different lives.

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Chris Suda’s poetry has been published in BlazeVOX, The Aura, and Rufous City Review. He is a twenty-four year old undergraduate at the University of Alabama at Birmingham and a musician when he puts the pen away. He is in three music projects: Philos Moore (singer-songwriter) In Snow (Instrumental), and Loveislight (Experimental Hip-Hop) when he’s not writing on paper.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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