Three Poems

by Joseph Sigurdson


Yes I was always a man full of haunts. Always here. Always waiting. Though nothing ever seemed to change. The fan remained dusty. My hair didn’t grow. I think my house was the only light in a disordered land where everything else was the outer dark, but I knew the shape of the woods from my poorly-lit childhood. The pattern of the pines, who led to a shadowy gulch with the scar of a creek within it. The coyotes yapped each day and night, whichever was which, inviting me in. Nobody is alone here.

Letter 3

A dog didn’t bark today. How’s the salutary nothingness on your end? I’ve gotten used to the taste of dust, the sound of dead cicadas in a far corner of the basement. There’s that barren feeling that lingers each time I wake without withdrawal. Like all of a sudden I know the room is free of ghosts. The worst dance was when that blizzard hit and buried all the liquor stores with it. I didn’t eat for eleven days. In the desert it is said that you can hallucinate too. You never told me what it was like to call our friend a final time. That’s no longer a worry I whisper into the woolen blankets. It’s healing slowly. I sit in my chair, staring out the morning window, waiting for a bird to never fly into it.

The Sober Drunk

He still wears it
but does not remember when
he scraped his watch.
The jagged reflection
on its face
makes it difficult
to tell
how far each hand has moved.

Joseph Sigurdson is a poet who now lives in Mississippi because the winters in Buffalo are actually that bad.

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