State Mandated Therapy Session
Two Weeks After Andre’s Suicide
I close my eyes before the face of the sun & see dogs run & men dance like house gnats
rounding out their turns above an abandoned cup of coffee or Andre’s beckons for me
from across a playground to tame the familiar thrill of the merry-go-round or winter
plowed-snow-mountains we bungle together with our puny bodies somehow enamored
by our small claim of cosmos until we goof to the ground into the dimples of some
neighbor’s yard. Against the black velvet of my eyelids a sea slides past wry rocks
as sun-spangled foam in rush to the shore to swallow the proof of our return to the land.
I remember myself & mosey on from under the porchlight of his mother’s home
past the forget-me-knots of her garden Andre once trounced in a game of manhunt
& I must not be looking to put on this simple smile that though empty should remain
behind the eight ball in my throat so that I might remember still the brief cracks of light
given by him as I now wane down this brow of hill & into the trombone wails of a taxi
the moon shivers over. Nary a prayer or kissing of ribs where Elisabeth invites me
to plant more than the jojoba & coconut I twist into her hair nary a mosh pit on
the road shoulder with mulch & prune of thorn sallies forth any fancy of my youth
but only dreams of this town dying in its place
this his strip of street
this his hometown gutter.
Christopher J. Greggs is a Callaloo and Watering Hole fellow and was the recipient of the Goodman Poetry prize from the City College of New York. His work has been published in the Promethean Literary Journal, Great Weather for MEDIA, and TriQuarterly. He lives in D.C. with his fiancé Nadia.