April 5, 2016

Three Poems By KG Newman: "Postmortem Imagination", "Empty Beds", and "Harvest Cycle"

KG Newman is the editor of a high school sports website, ColoradoSportsNetwork.com, and lives in Aurora, Colo. He is an Arizona State University graduate and his first collection of poems, While Dreaming of Diamonds in Wintertime, is available on Amazon. 

Postmortem Imagination

You’re in South Bend and I wander the peak
in Colorado Springs like I’m a spy on the job,
waiting for the copter’s rope to drop
and whisk me a centennial of betrayals back
to where you are. This water bottle could be
a flare today. Multicolored lichen seem to mark
the rendezvous spot. A couple taking
a summit selfie: Have they got any chance
in hell? I think of what words I would radio last
should the copter be blasted by a long range
ballistic missile. I think of our jackets,
on their hangers, in the dusty hall closet;
How close they hold each other, and never let go.

Empty Beds

Danielle, somewhere in Indiana
Mellencamp’s little pink houses
listen to you sob.
Thorns in curbside
piles of leaves. What was
once red and yellow now
soggy and brown. Through
chimneys your stress exhales,
warm foggy breath
in a field in a fall
Midwest shiver.
Granaries are our
Senate buildings.
Stalks sway in a barely
noticeable way.
The wife of the happiest
merchant at the market
has died and so who
will guide us?
It’s natural to want
to bury something
that hasn’t yet passed.
Helium in the wrinkly
balloons at the pumpkin
patch. Empty baskets
by the table of gourds.
Idling trucks with
their tailgates dropped,
waiting for crops
to fill them up
as they always do.

Harvest Cycle

It seemed everything had come our way.
Sex and home-brewed coffee every morning.
Wide windows and a breeze in each room.
Kiss-walking through August cornfields.

Near harvest, however, the sunlight dwindled
and we found ourselves among the crops
in the apocalypse, supercells circling
above our heads, the stalks strangely still,
each effort to talk spawning another tornado tail.

This winter we sit cater-corner on the couch.
Why always this sense of a looming implosion?
Flat characters of noisy annoyance
loitering on our television buffer, but
the rest of the scene remains lovely:
wide icicled windows and dogs seeking cuddles.

By spring the scales will tip:
You’ll plant a pot, carry it naked
into our bedroom and drop it out
the third-story window. The explosion
and the crying deafeningly quiet.

~KG Newman 

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