Johnny Appleseed
A myth, a mistake,
raking sodden leaves into trodden ground
feeling dirt sift beneath his weight;
a nomad, a flake,
an illustration in a children’s book
planting the American dream, original sin;
a sexist, a snake,
sowing seeds into earthy wombs,
throwing them to absent winds
praying they catch, they root, they grow
bitter, sour, sweet;
a marvel, a fake,
a man
who tread across
the heart
of my own Ohio,
a man
who preached what he did not know.
A Madman’s Lullaby
There is a monster lives inside my head,
His eyes the yellow of the yowling dead;
I speak with him before I go to bed.
He sleeps, dark familiar, throughout the day,
Lonely, cold-fingered, molded from dread.
There is a monster lives inside my head.
He dreams where I should live instead,
Drawing the curtain from a summer’s ray.
I speak with him when I rise from bed.
He mocks the children for their children’s play
And bakes his misery in a poisoned bread.
There is a monster lives inside my head.
He speaks the words I would leave unsaid,
Wearing my skin weathered and frayed.
I speak with him before I go to bed.
He lures me in where no man dare tread,
Lighting the darkened path of an unlighted way.
There is a monster lives inside my head;
He speaks to me before he goes to bed.
Death, to Whom I Speak
For E. Springer
The phone rang yesterday afternoon
as I walked, dragging
my feet into the kitchen
because I could not find the cordless phone.
When I answered,
I heard — or imagined I heard —
You
answering from the other line, Your voice
whispering words with no syllables,
words in no tongue I could understand.
I tried to catch
a piece of Your voice
to bottle in a jar
like a sort of broken lullaby
to lull me to sleep on sleepless nights.
Before I could speak,
You — or the remains of You —
were gone
and I was left with a longing
and the dull tone
of static silence.
Pierce C. Brown is a poet, short story writer and translator. He currently lives and studies in Mainz, Germany.
