Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Three Poems


kaddish for i
 

i cannot help myself
but think, about me
hanging on the walls
of individuals who did not
know me, nor did they
understand the broken within
my mind, i cannot help
but die, like a portrait
in a whirling sort of fiction,
while me hangs like a darkling, yearning
to heal my thinking and dying i.

 

 

 

 

sadness does what i forget
 

father’s stroke: the loss of a heavy man
in a world wanting like virgil’s shade, 
stroke: because dogs are old, and dying
babies speak of their lives before the artist, painted them
sideways looking for a better angle, only to discover
themselves were the better perspective: stroke.

 

 

 

 

became my yours
 

i cannot recall, an acre of bread
so glassless as I, the barker
on the fields, cowing in the mines
which stood too tall, for the ride
of kissing feet in blood, and hermit
hands without arms to shake, me
cannot recall, my limbs left
a strewn, mine, like the barleys
on a rollercoaster too afraid to fall, i
cannot recall the moment my mines
finally became my yours.

 

 

 

Jonathan Dick is a 22-year-old poet and human being from Toronto, Canada. You may have seen his recent work in Songs of Eretz, The Rain, Party & Disaster Society, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Five2One, or Lipstickparty Mag.