John Grey

Body Washed Up

They were just a couple of kids who found her,
sixteen and stupid with that soft kind of love
that hasn’t been kicked in the teeth yet,
walking along the river at dusk,
hands sweating together -

then they damn near tripped over her -
the woman with the purple legs –
the girl screamed,
the boy clutched at his stomach –

me, I’ve walked a thousand lonely trails
at hours when even the drunks go home,
and I’ve never found a body.
just my own shadow tagging along -

I’ve done that hand‑holding routine too -
look at me, I’ve got someone,
look at us pretending we fit,
but most of the time it was just two people
dragging around something already dead,
a different kind of corpse,
one that doesn’t rot in the sun
or bloat in the water -

no maggots, no stink.
just thoughts.
those tiny white crawlers
that get into your head
and chew from the inside
until you can’t tell what’s alive anymore.

 

Displacement

One dam, a thousand acres of water,
displaces an entire village.

What was once a stream flowing through  
is a trickle strictly monitored.

Houses stay but people leave.
The water’s clear enough to see the rooftops.

There’s the two-room school house.
And the stores on Main Street.

But no people. Not even the dead.
Thanks to government largesse,

they’ve been buried elsewhere.
The highest point in town

is still the church spire.
But don’t go swimming here.

God might gore your belly
with his cross.

Originally published by Children, Churches and Daddies

 

A Call Out                                                                             
Domestic violence call -
police car, sparks of blue and red,
through falling snow.
He can feel them coming for him. She's not done weeping.
Cop at the door, hair sprinkled white, gun and night-stick threatening from his belt.
"Can I come in?"
Broken flowerpot on the floor
No, nothing has happened here officer.
The wife joins them,
her face bruised,
tripped on a chair, she says.
He wishes the cop would stop staring at her.
Cop enters the kitchen, looks around. There's always knives, always something to shatter.
Add a yoga instructor/mom, a handsome mailman, a brawny truck driver and a rumor gone electric.
"I fell there," she says, pointing to a bloodstain.
Cop's amazed at how some people
just fling themselves to the floor for no reason.
With the law encroaching on their battleground, husband and wife team up. No one's pressing any charges. Why would they?

                                                                       
Shrug of shoulders.
Shake of head.
Time to pay a visit
to the girls on Greenwood,
the only legs on full display
in a snowed-in city.
police car,
sparks of red and blue
through falling snow -
From the kitchen window, they watch it fade into the white
where,
once upon a time,
it all began.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Calliope. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.