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"To The Penguin Boy" by Lewis Warsh

"To The Penguin Boy" by Lewis Warsh

To The Penguin Boy

The people behind the wall are laughing

at something they saw on television. Her

hair floats over the surface of the pool

like a wreath. All I can hear are the tears

of a clown down through the years. A small

cabin in the woods beneath the

whispering pines.

 

You can say there were two strands, but of

unequal length. Pictures of mackerel & carp,

an animal starving in its skin. Everything

will be different the next time you pass

through town. It’s pointless to promise something

you can never give.

 

You can almost see the ocean over the

distant hills. You can gauge the distance

between the hills and the water. The fog

rolls in at the same time everyday.

 

The victim is not the person who wakes

in the middle of the night. The victim is not

the person who sleeps until noon.

 

Was it a figure of speech, or an alliteration,

that led us to cross the stream, in slow motion,

between the branches, or something like

the repetition of a heartbeat, that made us

fall asleep on the grass?

 

All I know is that my own worst enemy

has come to visit. That nothing has changed

in all the years since we first met. Feel free

to sweep up after me as I follow every

path through the past that we call our own.

 

Nothing has changed about our feelings

for one another, while the world around us

goes up in flames.

 

Drive your Subaru over the bridge into the

water, if that’s what you want. Carp leaping

into the air, looking for flies. But what

about the pelicans, their beaks pointed into the

sun?

Born in the Bronx, New York, Lewis Warsh attended the City College of New York, where he earned both his BA and MA in English. Warsh started writing poetry and fiction as a teenager and published his first poems in Wild Dog Magazine in 1965. A year later, Warsh co-founded Angel Hair magazine and books; he later joined a community of writers that formed around the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church in the East Village. Warsh authored over 20 books of poetry, as well as autobiographies and fiction. A recipient of grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York Foundation of the Arts, the Creative Artists Public Service Foundation, the Fund for Poetry and the Poet’s Foundation, Warsh also received an Editor’s Fellowship Award from the Coordinating Council on Literary Magazines, and a James Shestack award from the American Poetry Review; in 2005 he was the winner of the Gertrude Stein Award for Innovative Poetry in English. Warsh taught at Long Island University in Brooklyn, New York as an associate professor in the English Department and directed the MFA program in creative writing. He died in late 2020 at the age of 76.

This  poem appeared in Epiphany’s Fall 2015 Pent-Up Humanity issue.

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