Repairing the World
Like in a riot, police were shooting rubber bullets. I was rushed by strangers to the hospital. It was dark, stifling, and dingy. The doctor cut my feet open and put pennies in the incisions before sewing them back up and wrapping them in bandages. We were both crying. The moment had the reverence of a flag-burning ceremony, which is performed when a flag is too ragged to fly. Later at home I looked down and saw the bandages were bloody. My mother said, "I just need to grab a lab coat and one egg and I can fix this.”
The Walking Dead
Thinking about escaping across closed borders, I dug a hole outside. It was hard work. I pulled out bricks, barbed wire, glass bottles and jars, and old cans as I dug deeper. When my mind drifted too far into sadness, I stopped. Everything moves slowly now. I’m learning to be stingy with supplies. On the table is a bunch of flowers I found in the trash. This may be a good time to catch up on The Walking Dead, but I stand at the window that looks out on the yard. Somehow, just standing there feels like a hopeful gesture.
Sunday Blues
A lot of people feel depressed on Sundays, starting about 4 in the afternoon. I’m different. I feel depressed on most days, and it doesn’t matter what time it is. A grief without any obvious source has pursued me my whole life, a claw-like hand that will abruptly fall on my shoulder. Sometimes the hand can get too heavy to shake off. Overnight a woman who jumped from the old railroad bridge was pulled from the river still alive. The water seems particularly agitated now, sounding like it’s muttering, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” over and over.
- © Howie Good 2020
Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.
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