The American Journal of Poetry
"Strong Rx Medicine"®

 

Michael Meyerhofer

Divine Witness

 

It all started with Christ, you know.
So many dust-covered followers
 
passing bread, pouring wine
like whale’s blood, when suddenly
 
the son of God whipped out his iPhone
and took a selfie. Just sharing

a snapshot of our meal
, Christ said
when they asked what he was doing,

and for the rest of the evening
as he spoke of nails, and roosters,

and swords bought for the price
of a cloak, they listened

mostly to his breast pocket:
that steady, unanswered buzz.

 

 

Michael Meyerhofer

Patriotic Cookie

 

The sign says it only costs a dollar,
either because of or in spite of
the poorly melted frosting, tri-colored
palette of sprinkles smeared by California heat
into a kind of murky blue not half
as impressive as the brighter hue adorning
the tiles on the Islamic mosque
I just saw in a documentary
about some desert with apostrophes,
and still less impressive when
compared to the adjacent seafood aisle
with its plucky crab legs and shy
grammatical shrimp, canned goods
with their Depression-era robustness,
roasted chickens in their bodices of spice,
all those exhibitionist heaps of melons
and well-marbled steaks, and of course
the wall-to-wall display of diapers
which do their best to whitewash
the horror that happens down below.

 

 

Michael Meyerhofer

Ode to Silhouettes

 

I mean those people who walk by
the camera, the movie screen, the stage

in a concert hall or a nightclub, so that
all you can see is their heads

and maybe a shoulder, slumped
or jerking a bit as they stumble free

of their row, untethered from their table
with its dark mysterious drinks,

on their way to the restroom
or the snack bar or the sidewalk

to return a call in spite of the rain.
So that whatever earrings they chose

become as meaningless as their hairstyle,
the effort put into matching

this blazer with that pair of shoes,
all of it backlit into passing obstruction,

the way sun-worshippers must still
groan or curse or at least take it

personally whenever the fat full moon
photobombs their view of God.

 

 

 

MICHAEL MEYERHOFER's fourth book, What To Do If You're Buried Alive, was published by Split Lip Press. He is also the author of a fantasy series and the Poetry Editor of Atticus Review. His work has appeared in Hayden's Ferry, Rattle, Brevity, Tupelo Quarterly, Ploughshares, MARGIE, and other journals. For more information and an embarrassing childhood photo, visit www.troublewithhammers.com.

 

 

Previous  |  Next