Umbriate Press Poetry

The Snow Today Daniel Parish

The snow today: white.
Met with the tongue: red.
Of my childhood: darkened.
As I, head down, mouth agape,
lapped at the macadam narrowing into the future.

My father was fond of saying: 
Do you know why yur here?
It's cause ya ain't all thare.
And he would laugh the laugh
that followed him to the grave.

This morning with my tongue 
firmly frozen to the roadway
I realized what my father meant:
jerking back my head
my tongue tried to follow
but could not entirely.

When spring foots its path
back into town
I will look for that
reddish signature
dried like a radish skin
beneath the sun of where
I am not but where 
I was and where my
language tries to be
without growing too old
waiting for another
encouraging winter.

The Weight of Tears Stacey Justman

A sorry-man wakes to wind-blown memories
adrift amidst freshly cut grasses.
Swaying stillness
rises as new thought
like forgettable vegetation 
or trembling blossoms
at the sound
of gunshot.

I begged him to be my guest,
but, ignoring my pleas
he became my host
and spilled wine
on the charred madeleines,
tiny pillows of my bitterness.

Traveling on foot
through all this
a one-gendered parade 
of disembodied identity,
the road reveals blotches:
dried animal skin and bleached bone.

Farther on a mouse scampers
across my path
dragging its hind legs
through puddles of 
drought weary tears.