2 poems

by sam gomez

Detroit Catholic Central High School

We Have Dragged Torches Behind Us

Ashen faces, pale fire, woodsmoke
In playgrounds, parkways, peristyles,
Annexes, small office cubicles, chapels—
With tapestries, kindling beams, black paste—
The cereal aisle.
Bent at the ribs and blank,
Leaving a trail of embers
That kiss the cardboarded Cheerios:
We make a bonfire.
Gather the old men, who lie on floors,
The children, who laugh.
It spreads to the bakery:
Burning, breaking bread.
Sprinklers rain,
The choirs refrain,
Descant and descend to the floors
With the old men, the torches that melt:
Ashen linoleum, pale fluorescent, godsmoke
Anointed in olive oil
Seeping under the shelving:
Puddle, peristyle, grocery,
Gravestone, flickering,
Floundering, bonfire,
Bakery, tapestry,
Torch, ashen,
Asylum.

first funeral

The only light in the basement from
The vending machine and from the tight hallway outside:
Both winking and cold. I sat at a folding table.
Six feet above, through the creaking floor, the casket.
My father gripped my shoulder with one hand,
Gesticulating with the other: oil future,
Stimulus package, other words I didn’t understand,
That looked like the ones on the labels behind the glass.

I don’t recall any sobbing, nor any bouquets of flowers,
Silver trays of mostaccioli and green beans,
Fuel left in the burners. No stink of old perfume.
I had just come down from the parlor,
Just seen the body, the old painter—
Rick, or Stanley—his eyes closed, staring.
My father gripped my shoulders with both hands:
Say goodbye. A forced smile.
Rick smiled back: winking, cold, dead.