Two Poems

by Travis Goure

the last dead spring

grey cotton at the bottom of the console
and the crease inside my arm is pitch

in the car out front of an antique store
my mother cried out
from another age

and I stayed the night at my brother’s
on an air mattress, shaking
vomiting cereal
with the sports network on
and rain knocking at the roof in even strokes.

the next day at the hospital
a girl brought me fruit and
water,

I pulled out my chords while she spoke to an orderly
and never thanked her.

I walked down the highway
laid down in the parking lot of a strip mall
and listened to the cars.

someone knelt beside me
with a sheet of sketch paper

and on it a figure no thicker than a wire
with broken glasses
laid in the lot of a strip mall
sweating

‘I like to draw strangers,’
she said,
walking away.

A red haired girl from the Italian restaurant came too
she put her hand on my shoulder
and told me a joke

I nodded

and kept walking.

Every once in a while I hid in a bush
to vomit on myself

and it was strange to be with lilacs
imitating a timid death.

I ended up at a friend’s house
begging

begging
until I stuck that hard, pitch bridge of vein
one more time.

I fell out there in
the driveway
and came to
crying
at some wilderness or elsewhere

and it seemed to me a comedy
that such a bare and luscious life
could there occur
in simultaneity.

I stayed still a while
until my sister-in-law
pushed me into her car.

I checked in the next day.

contortionist god

a god watching itself
in a tall mirror

twisting

demanding
trenchant

the lot of us
a god with body dysmorphia
staring at itself
in a tall mirror

the billions of us
fractures
of another paling thing
unsatisfied
at its own
being

almost quiet
the fan blowing
in a white bathroom
in a long, white hall behind
the eyes

perhaps this is why
we are so bewildered
all of the time

is it contorting there? drawing it’s jaw up
just enough to bely
the hanging
lip
cut up
by fright, or the wire hand
running
a jagged pattern
of ridges
over negated
breasts

it’s comedic, as always,
to think about all of this
the boring, swollen oddity
this
incoherence in
perpetuity
all

the contortionist god

a god with body
dysmorphia


Travis Gouré is a young writer living outside of Atlanta, GA. He has interned as a poetry editor for Deep South Magazine, and as a contributor for Rush Hour Daily News. His poetry and prose have appeared in Menacing Hedge literary journal, The Sacred Cow Magazine, and The Scarlet Leaf Review.
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