brett

“Black Widow” by Brett Land

Maybe it has nothing to do with choice,

was writ from the beginning 

that this would happen,

in this order, for these reasons, 

and maybe there was a fair amount of calculation 

over who deserves what, 

on God’s part,

why some are punished so terribly

and others are unscathed. 

Maybe these questions are silly

when songbirds plunge headfirst into windows,

when every dog growls at your reaching hand.

The world is now sinister—

of course you do not deserve—

it rains, for you only, every Saturday. 

Oil cakes your feet when you walk the beach. 

Sex is brief.  

You are clumsy now, strangely—

hallways, stairs, sidewalk curbs—

and as you fall,

as everything crumbles, 

do not think of Job

or Jonah

do not wait for the locusts

or the boils 

to stop.

They are for you.

Let them hit you.

All the spiders, 

all the skin-rashes

the phantom pains,

all the divine punishment meted out 

for your hateful heart, 

your radioactive touch, 

your bad-luck blues, 

that stupid song 

you’ve been singing 

so long.

“Sick Day” by Brett Land

In bed, at first light, I say 

we should call in sick 

and spend the day dressed as farmers, 

find those denim overalls, 

my Carhart jacket, 

the one with the furry lining, 

and we’ll find a field 

and kick brushtails 

and pretend we’re sad 

because the rain didn’t come. 

She is quiet, maybe still asleep,

but I press: or we go to the junkyard 

find old metal 

to build shelves with, 

like we talked about, 

or sleep in, 

watch some television, 

I’ll run out f

or those almond croissants 

and you keep the sheets warm—

or if that sounds 

too lay-about 

we go for a run, 

a long walk, 

or some yoga 

plus some running 

or if that is too ambitious 

we get a drink 

at that old dive bar 

where the salty men 

will tell us about Vietnam

or why they didn’t go to Vietnam

or we drive up the coast 

and hit the used bookstores

and find a lake to swim in—

or we could make lunch for the mailman, 

have it ready when he walks up, 

or finish the garden, or sex—

for goodness sakes—

or maybe we stay here 

and get real quiet and listen

for the rising, approaching

sound of the world, 

which will be here any second now, 

demanding that we shower 

and get dressed 

and play the roles we have agreed to play—

the world with all its perverse demands—

and we won’t have an excuse.