Three POEMS
Devon Neal
Two Dogwoods
Two dogwoods in an arranged marriage
in my front lawn, spending every night,
every storm together in the places
they were told to grow. In the first year,
fertilize early, then keep the cracked dirt
damp. In gym shorts and my work shoes,
I give them the same cool hosewater
under a white morning sun. One folds
neat green collars along thickening
necks. One grows stiff and brown,
sprouting black ribbons that fall in summer,
carried by the free wind.
After the Procedure, Avoid Heavy Lifting (10-15 Pounds)
It’s important to know that our bodies
are a crowded cluster of puppet strings,
dark and thrumming, pulled taut and linking
parts together you wouldn’t think unless
you traced them like a kid with a pencil
and a workbook. Your fishbody calf
knows the song of your bending thumb.
Your shalestone shoulderblades tug
with the hinge of your pointed ankle bone.
Even the ampersand of your italic ear
feels the notes of your plucked Achilles.
Why do you think they call them hamstrings?
So maybe it seems strange at first,
this instruction, but any pull, any strum,
no matter how small, could unspool
your tuning, rattle wooden against bone,
tangle your insides into a fist knot.
I’d hate to have you come back here
for a restringing.
Decline
I store all my problems in my body
like a wet whorl of laundry. Here,
a soaked heavy shirt with cracked letters.
Here, black mesh shorts with drawstrings
twisted into knots. At night, in the quiet
of the flashing muted TV, I can hear
the grass-kissed tennis shoes tumbling,
shoestrings ticking like a black fire. Gears
turn and whine, screws loosening in the lurch,
black-soured water growing rust moss on metal.
I can feel the load of it all more now,
hot zippers biting on the inside, buttons torn
and ricocheting off every soft part. Limestone
dust chokes every tube and valve. A crystal squeal
at the turn of the old dented drum. There is no
replacing parts—they don’t make them like me
any more. Let the clockwork teeth fold until
they stop, let the cable work itself from the wall
and carry me out to the curb to swallow the rain.
Two dogwoods in an arranged marriage
in my front lawn, spending every night,
every storm together in the places
they were told to grow. In the first year,
fertilize early, then keep the cracked dirt
damp. In gym shorts and my work shoes,
I give them the same cool hosewater
under a white morning sun. One folds
neat green collars along thickening
necks. One grows stiff and brown,
sprouting black ribbons that fall in summer,
carried by the free wind.
After the Procedure, Avoid Heavy Lifting (10-15 Pounds)
It’s important to know that our bodies
are a crowded cluster of puppet strings,
dark and thrumming, pulled taut and linking
parts together you wouldn’t think unless
you traced them like a kid with a pencil
and a workbook. Your fishbody calf
knows the song of your bending thumb.
Your shalestone shoulderblades tug
with the hinge of your pointed ankle bone.
Even the ampersand of your italic ear
feels the notes of your plucked Achilles.
Why do you think they call them hamstrings?
So maybe it seems strange at first,
this instruction, but any pull, any strum,
no matter how small, could unspool
your tuning, rattle wooden against bone,
tangle your insides into a fist knot.
I’d hate to have you come back here
for a restringing.
Decline
I store all my problems in my body
like a wet whorl of laundry. Here,
a soaked heavy shirt with cracked letters.
Here, black mesh shorts with drawstrings
twisted into knots. At night, in the quiet
of the flashing muted TV, I can hear
the grass-kissed tennis shoes tumbling,
shoestrings ticking like a black fire. Gears
turn and whine, screws loosening in the lurch,
black-soured water growing rust moss on metal.
I can feel the load of it all more now,
hot zippers biting on the inside, buttons torn
and ricocheting off every soft part. Limestone
dust chokes every tube and valve. A crystal squeal
at the turn of the old dented drum. There is no
replacing parts—they don’t make them like me
any more. Let the clockwork teeth fold until
they stop, let the cable work itself from the wall
and carry me out to the curb to swallow the rain.
Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Stone Circle Review, Livina Press, and The Storms, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.