POETRY

By Terence Degnan

dear Palin­drome, fuck// dear Parkinson’s,// Dianne is in the hos­pi­tal again// we are sitting on her dog, Sam// before she was taken away she walked over and gifted me one of those grip­pers my old man used to keep on his dashboard// a tal­is­man of our friendship// now// it has become a cher­ished object// Yes­ter­day, I was walking on the sunny side of the borough with a friend// Dianne’s gift in my bad pocket// on the dark side of my sweater// sewn to the dying hemi­sphere of my body// I told my walking companion// I used to take the shadows for granted// as we fol­lowed a warmed path// The sun, sopho­moric in its own kind of naivety// We have both// entered the mid­sec­tions of our lives// The sun is unaware// it only has 5 billion rota­tions around nothing// left to go// there are many adjec­tives reserved for func­tion­al limbs// pitch­ing arm// strum­ming hand// When I flip// a bird// it’s hilarious// The body count in Syria// in Haiti// In Turkey// is numbing// the last quake was called a doublet// a twofer// Twice the mortality// its cen­troids so tightly bound to each other// they’re considered// fatal twins// When we went to Dianne’s child­hood restaurant// the only thing she could focus on// was// out­liv­ing her dog// Yes­ter­day, the toxins in her kidneys had her think­ing it was 1924// I don’t know why death is more dev­as­tat­ing when it’s singular// They’ve added three hundred pieces of med­i­cine to my old regimen// I can’t deci­pher the improve­ments from the imposters// Words —like bodies— can be broken down into parts// to be better understood// a = without// pathy = suffering// The new meds have hacked away at the apathy// Like miner ants with tiny headlamps// Their route work, apathetic// Somehow I pity them, their ignorance// But a more mindful man would learn the names of his chemists// Pluck the line that con­nects a day of less suf­fer­ing to their noble pursuits// Like cat guts// stretched thin on a hol­lowed gourd// The ety­mol­o­gy of pro­fes­sion in Latin is prof­i­teri: to declare publicly// but when it put on its Old English coat it became: the vows taken when enter­ing a reli­gious order// But what of calling// I am a bird// singing back to his chemist// a less waver­ing note// the song of his devotion// The ety­mol­o­gy of ambidex­troc­i­ty// has no spade// it’s a word born of blind hope// there is no city one pop­u­la­tion aban­doned for the one// next over// when the earth­quakes became unbearable// It means leftover// or with// the hand you shave the lemon sun into a single translu­cent day// and run it along the rim of a glass you hold in a war­bling toast// cheers// to that chemist George Cotzias// to his penul­ti­mate rebirth after the light shifted in Sandover// to his living granddaughter// as the sun// mid-life// fishes// freckles// to tip of her nose

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Marcelo Leal