Three Poems

O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

it seemed a good idea

following the funeral

of our second cousin once

now permanently removed

to open a few windows

to throw back the shades & in

with the morning breeze the sun

blew on its bluesy trumpet

also a bee which despite

persistent shooing refused

to go away attracted

to the various flowers

strewn about being just as

fragrant as they were lovely

but confused it made what I

think is accurate to call

a beeline for me even

though I swatted swiped & swung

at it ran through the house as

if on fire it followed me

everywhere ever circling

waiting for an opening

then flew into the tunnel

of my ear I’m no doctor

so don’t ask me how it worked

its way inside my head all

I can say is the buzzing

was is almost deafening

An Intervention, 1989

at a small get-together at the even smaller

apartment of a coworker

everybody was either

in the kitchenette blender whirring

up elaborate concoctions

with unpronounceable names

for me at least or else crammed

together on a puny orange

striped sofa awkwardly

painfully not bringing

up the office or his ex we knew

only as a lone face among the myriad

memos thumbtacked to his work

space wall when returning

from the john I brought

along the plaid purple

dress I’d found hanging there

on the back of the door he cracked

it’d look good on me in red

I told him what my mother always said

get rid of everything that reminds you

of the protracted profanity-

laced-litany persona

non grata even the purple dress

especially the purple dress somebody quipped

this was met with so much laughter

we built a bonfire in the sink

to which our host contributed

old cosmos people a wang

chung cassette the note she’d

jotted off telling him

very little the previously alluded to

photo & for the coup de grâce

the dress making the flames leap

& roar huzzah then the party dissolved

into shop talk & after everybody left

he swallowed a vial of pills & almost died

back in those days you may remember

I was david letterman

I should also mention

before she gets mad at me

my mother never said any such thing

Art for Mayakovsky

was a hammer perhaps

shiny enough for you

to see the world

warts & all re-

flected around you

with a pained sigh but

not merely a mirror

for reality to check

its part adjust its tie

or see if there’s any

spinach on its teeth

before going out

a duplicitous dupe

trading stocks

for other fetters

when used correctly

art can serve a greater

purpose as a tool to pound

inequality into a smooth

level surface before

slapping on a smart

coat of candy apple

red to strike in solidarity

for a living wage

to beat swords back

into ploughshares

or possibly to drive

a nail into the bare

wall for hanging

a framed piece by

maybe mayakovsky

himself after building

first the house among

the many wrong &

failing structures

literal political social

& otherwise in need

of a real hammer

Matt Morris is the author of Nearing Narcoma, selected by Joy Harjo as winner of the Main Street Rag Poetry Award, and Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand, published by Knut House Press. His poems have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, for which he has received multiple award nominations, including the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Matt MorrisMarch 26, 2021

Poetry

[ P O E T R Y ]

Three Poems

O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

it seemed a good idea

following the funeral

of our second cousin once

now permanently removed

to open a few windows

to throw back the shades & in

with the morning breeze the sun

blew on its bluesy trumpet

also a bee which despite

persistent shooing refused

to go away attracted

to the various flowers

strewn about being just as

fragrant as they were lovely

but confused it made what I

think is accurate to call

a beeline for me even

though I swatted swiped & swung

at it ran through the house as

if on fire it followed me

everywhere ever circling

waiting for an opening

then flew into the tunnel

of my ear I’m no doctor

so don’t ask me how it worked

its way inside my head all

I can say is the buzzing

was is almost deafening

An Intervention, 1989

at a small get-together at the even smaller

apartment of a coworker

everybody was either

in the kitchenette blender whirring

up elaborate concoctions

with unpronounceable names

for me at least or else crammed

together on a puny orange

striped sofa awkwardly

painfully not bringing

up the office or his ex we knew

only as a lone face among the myriad

memos thumbtacked to his work

space wall when returning

from the john I brought

along the plaid purple

dress I’d found hanging there

on the back of the door he cracked

it’d look good on me in red

I told him what my mother always said

get rid of everything that reminds you

of the protracted profanity-

laced-litany persona

non grata even the purple dress

especially the purple dress somebody quipped

this was met with so much laughter

we built a bonfire in the sink

to which our host contributed

old cosmos people a wang

chung cassette the note she’d

jotted off telling him

very little the previously alluded to

photo & for the coup de grâce

the dress making the flames leap

& roar huzzah then the party dissolved

into shop talk & after everybody left

he swallowed a vial of pills & almost died

back in those days you may remember

I was david letterman

I should also mention

before she gets mad at me

my mother never said any such thing

Art for Mayakovsky

was a hammer perhaps

shiny enough for you

to see the world

warts & all re-