William Teets

Cakes and Ale  

And on the seventh day,
in grey-garden light
behind tombstone elegies,
she weeps.
Objects that I name my demons,
repose in their lairs.

Evangelizes her heart runs mighty currents,
brings peace like a river, and if I let her baptize me anew,
my uneven, whiskey-stained kitchen table will sculpt
into a stone altar where tomorrows no longer cause confusion
about today. But the jail-break heathen-hymns that escape the dirty
basement on Delacroix—where junkies lean and poets dream
and muscle-car boys pantomime the night—toll a death knell
for every corpse that believed self-righteous forgiveness
saves lost boys who write elegies not on tombstones,
but dime-store postcards never meant to be mailed.   

 

Revival

With a Cherokee blowgun bought from some backwoods trading post, we whoosh crucifix-shaped shrapnel through stained-glass windows of the only cathedral in town. Angels descend on the crime site, locals promise to the high heavens to tear flesh from the bodies of all sinful perps, only bones left behind. We watch the investigation unravel from the shadows of Peter’s Fish & Tackle Bait Shop, and I wonder if the Verona Police Department used as much crime scene tape to yellow-off Romeo and Juliet’s suicide. As planned, we meet up with the Chief Baker, moonlighting as a double-agent for the pharaoh and the poor. Four and twenty blackbirds explode from his ruse pie and fly towards the sun. With the town’s folk distracted just enough, we hotwire a junked ’57 Ford pickup and drive away on a hot dusty road. Without any side mirrors or gas gauge, we can’t tell if our capture is closer than it appears, if we’ll need to burn our bones for future fuel.         

Threesome                                                                                                                                     

You sketch dreams on white bar naps,
dismiss adjectives as liars
Like a ballad in a rain cloud, sing
low lyrics to Both Sides Now

In a soft church, with softer sunrays,
your hard-edged mother curses me, blames
me for the men who wrecked her life

She never knew we needed no proof
to believe in forever,
even after hard rains of finitude
fell heavy against our skin

I watch smoky blue light slat your face,
turn left and order a Rusty Nail
You tug my shoulder,
say, Mama’s on the phone,
she wants to talk with you   

Rain pounds the corrugated tin roof
like a killing machine gun

 

William Teets, born in Peekskill, New York, has recently relocated to Southeast Michigan. He misses New York pizza, corner stores, and the Hudson River. Mr. Teets’ poetry and prose have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Blood+Honey, Argyle Literary Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Ink in Thirds, and Ariel Chart. He is the author of two poetry books, After the Fall (2023) and Babylon Redux (2025), both published by Cajun Mutt Press.