3 Poems by Michael Igoe

POSE OF TIRED EYES                                                     

I own a pedigree
in a wasted science
in which the zeroes
radiate in a swarm.
My abscessed arms,
lashed out forever
they’re in league,
with arms aligned.
Behind four blank walls,
memory will only permit
an owning of tired poses.  


Then sickness sears those
who belong to the Summer.
It delves into their logic
like a lonesome abacus.
Keeps the hands rhythmic.
They blame aloneness
on a grateful existence,
Minds wander true to form,
they find safety in numbers.
They rise up from the pit
their wings beat in torment
they shine bright like glass.
Several mouths appear
to sample fruit of the sky.
I look over my shoulder
I respond to the soldier
who pulled his trigger:
I watch you brood about
the details of your eyes.
They split apart,
staying centered,
eagerly burning
like two furnaces.
Two gilded lilies,
that urge your guilt
are neutral to heaven.                                                                                                                        

WHY ARE THINGS DIM?                                                    


From street lights,
or so it may seem,
rays come from
friends on guard
against enemies.
I will remain empty,
although I’m witness
to the bleached bones
scattered on highways.
My grandmother speaks
most often of blindness.
I was not then young
I answered as I liked.
I always probed her
for all the reasons
that life’s latter half
would be no different.
I warm by those flames
fueled by man sized rags
in a world more than angry.                                                                                                                                     

About the contributor

Michael Igoe is from Chicago but now lives in Boston. An instructor in Psychiatric Recovery, he has many works in journals online and in print, including remingtonreview.com, idleink.org, Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), National Library Of Poetry Editors' Choice Award 1997.

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