Poetry and Prose from the Center for Writers
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by JEFFERY MacLACHLAN
Anniversary
A warning siren—
a screeching of horror violins
and out of the gin-clear lakes
come the lakeflies. Shit,
my husband says, and clicks high
beams briefly to expose
a falling white rain. Ripped wings
coat sidewalks and newts bleep
Morse code. We drive past
our jewelry store
like every week since the break-in.
Oncoming blue headlamps highlight
individual insects mid-flight—
garnet grasshopper brooch,
butterfly tapestries
embroidered with moonstones,
lakeflies on power
lines like opal lockets.
The passenger window we've put off
fixing seeps a fog that taps
my ears with a thousand flailing feet.
He takes foaming breaths and crushes
cold handfuls, ending
their one evening of adolescence.
The Crows
On the day of my grandmother's burial, the crows shot straight up from the horizon and exploded into clouds of black glitter. I never liked her but didn't dislike her so I kept my head down and made eye contact with a crow poking at snow. Amidst echoes of rifles and giddy hunters, the priest opened with an anecdote about slipping in crow droppings. His breath spritzed the air with peppermint and cigarettes as he talked around her meth habit.
My father interrupted with the Indian legend of the crows. They were once colorful birds with sweet voices. The crows felt bad for the dead because there was no place for them and so the crows built a magical fire. The dead entered the fire and expanded into glowing orbs that ballooned into the night sky. The crows grew envious of this flight and approached the flames when no one noticed, burning feathers and straining throats. Now they roost in oak groves that convulse with a terrifying smoke…
Chop Shop
It's really the only talent not peeled
from my fingers after several tours—
stripping luxury brands of pistons,
wheels, and radiator cores. Central
New York’s dirty sleet slithers
under sectional doors
as boosted rides enter camouflaged
by night. I stuck a knife
into the arm of a thief who cracked
on my ex— blood didn't erupt
from his skin as much as it yawned
and settled on concrete.
I was speedballing that night
like I did a lot in Ramadi—
gave up smoking from being shot
at night. I'd dope up
and read local papers— headlines
like Phantom Spiders Eat Marines.
Haji writers screwed with my mind.
While on-duty I'd picture
djinns wafting in the darkness—
giant molars and horns—but it'd just
be a car left from a roadside bomb.
That's when I'd break off mirrors
or windshields for target practice
at dawn—if I leveled Hajis
I'd shrug it off because sooner or later
I knew my body would be disassembled.
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Jeffrey H. MacLachlan can be followed on Twitter @jeffmack.