Hope on fingernails on coffin quick,
nowhere as fast as bitterness sets in.
Root of gentians claim
where nerves pressed in.
How long been left in ‘s irrelevant:
if reduced to tendon the smell
still resentment, stillness still bedsore
when the body and soul end up on separate
signatures, finished by separate penmanship.
(Does hope flung eternal
even know Autumn?
Know a swill sweet of rotten?
Know it the way we’ve grown
bonefed cages in us? Inner cynic
all chin up to taste
the hope heaved up.)
See black choke back on a reach.
Everything seen is beneath.
Fractures the deep up from somewhere
deeper (We just want an answer
to the question all this ascending begs,
about origins, and wherever that is,
if death’s been),
from where there is no more
vertical a plea.
What a siege.
What a siege it can be to breathe.
& through the last cleaves seeping
like I’m what Earth bleeds, archenemy
of entropy, a blood bound up like chainmail,
resilient as ozone, flayed by mire, free.
Look, when ground into ligament
deliciously not tender skepticism.
Although fact becomes legend too quickly—
this canyon dug out, the fault hunt down from below.
Tattered sinews beat a banner
aglow. The familiar to war
feel familial tow. Triumph costs
what blood knows.
Michael Joseph Garza is a poet from Cicero, IL obsessed with Dean Young and The Roots. His poems have appeared in RHINO, The People's Tribune, Curbside Splendor's zine, and on postcards given to strangers. He is currently pursuing is BA in Communications at DePaul in Chicago.