POETRY – 5 Poems by Dylan Weir

POEM

after Chris Green

I was born on Good Friday
the 13th,

the day Jerusalem drowned
drunk on the blood of her hollow son.

I was born Caesarean;
a scarred door of origin.

Mother’s knees sinking me
into water rinsing me, for the first time,

clean.

I WANNA SEE A REVIVAL

Holy are the hands that spread the circle.
Say something.
Serenity.
Hold the palms
of the two strangers
standing next to you
maybe you’ll feel
what they do. Maybe you’ll
begin to believe that you too
will be spared.
Saved.
Make this huddled mass hanging
under the tent your higher power.
Shout out tongues.
Just forget that this is only yours for the night.
The tent moves
on to the next town
tomorrow.

JOHNNY APPLESEED IS CARVING HIS JAWLINE INTO MOUNT RUSHMORE.

The great conservationist has learned that there’s no home
for the heroes of folklore. Johnny wants a headstone,
he doesn’t know crowds love mountains collapsing.

Shirley MacLaine danced through broken ankles. Claiming
past lives made her easy to dismiss. So the water-plunge
witch-test left critics looking for Ocean. But she talks
Johnny down: reincarnation is real. Reader-response
will always control your legacy.
There’s no use wasting stone.

SIX SCARS ON MY SKULL MARK MY FATHER’S MISSING HANDS,

hands the size of mine
now. Small, big houses gone

now. Ceilings so low he’d stoop.
Crouching down the stairs, then.

My pops – a giant. Six feet tall
all Superman. Too tall, then

for the walls. I would lose
eyes in the old man’s spiral.

The bald patch scratching the ceiling.
A foul ball to the crown.

We played catch, but,

both of us can’t grow
hair in spots where

we lost sight.
Scared to see mirrors.

THE WROTE AND THE WRIT

When you conducted the witch trial
I was drowning leagues deep
in every one of your seas
before all the follower’s fingers
followed the leader’s
pointing at me. Spit,
and piss on my name
if it makes you all congregation.
Call me evil,
refuse me retribution,
will you wonder
if it’s worth
wasting wood
to build my cross?

 

Dylan Weir is a Chicago poet who will be pursuing his MFA at the University of Wisconsin Madison next fall. A Jr. High poetry teacher, Dylan earned his MA in English at DePaul University. His Poetry appears in (or is forthcoming from): After Hours. Cleaver,Mobius, H_NMG_N, Literary Orphans, The Legendary, Red Paint Hill, and others. 

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *