Raymond Luczak

UNFORGIVING MYSELF

Down the road of a hundred marathons I pant.
Going uphill is worse than the Stations of the Cross.
I’ve lost so much muscle mass
none of my friends recognize me.
I am the barest of ghost and bone.
The heaviest part of my body is the heart.
Have I forgotten how to breathe?
My sneakers have become onion skin.
The sweat paint-dripped on my shins scorches.
My tongue is a desert boiling at noon.
Have my bones turned into matchsticks?
Extinguish me with electrolytes.
If only I had winged feet! I would so glide
miles and miles closer to forgiveness.

CAMERA OBSCURA

Punch a hole in the moleskin of my life.
See if my spleen can bleed.
 
Go ahead and box up my artifacts.
None of my scrapbooks will fit.
 
Cover your lies with a thick blanket.
The room is humming with rumors.
 
Seal the drapes shut with masking tape.
Let the light from within my rage leak.
 
There on the paper thumbtacked to the wall
is a montage of drawings yet to be traced.
 
They are all memories long erased.
I am only a silhouette upside-down.

Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of 30 books, including ten poetry collections. His work has appeared in Poetry, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. An inaugural Zoeglossia Poetry Fellow, he lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. [raymondluczak.com]