JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

The glass was so thick

contents obscured from viewing

dark green, snake hue

my head whirled in bifocals

 

I tried understanding it

from close and far it was

fog, moody, petulant

and the letters were jumbled

like serpents writhing,

rewriting themselves in reciprocals

 

Cursing, I hated myself

my weakening vision

yet somewhere a small light

glowed

 

It was a picture of Stephen

in his wheelchair, his face frozed

in teeth, eyes hardly glinting

 

But that voice! Those syllables

so familiar from way inside him –

the place where ideas are formed

mixed with metallic humor

 

Wincing, I screwed off the top

of the jar. Inside lay the fruit

sweet and sugary – last year’s legacy