John M. Bellinger

J o h n   M .   B e l l i n g e r 

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Everything in Boxes

He puts everything

in boxes, where

my mind is just

a burlap sack.

It is not

that I could not tolerate

sitting with him

in a restaurant of his choosing.

He would pierce the flank

with the tines of his fork.

I would spoon red lentils;

shake off the chill.

Memo to the Jury

And we have proven it is possible

for poison to act slowly, to

ply disease from healthy tissue

and yet sift without scent

through all our blunt detections.

The good doctor has described

how anyone could swallow

just a little bit of something every day—

sprinkled like sugar on breakfast—

and go as mad

as mice on mercury,

or go blind

on the side where his lover resides

and flinch from her face in the dark.