Bill Cushing

THE ARTIST’S SIJO

 

If it’s true, Vincent Van Gogh heard 47 voices within his head,

then gathered them to spill colors on canvas in swirls and shapes.

He saved us from sacrificing our own ears to the knife.

 

 

TRYING TO BE NORMAL IN A ZOMBIE WORLD

 

“Nice open wound you got there,”

he declares, more to himself

than anyone else.

It’s not that he can’t think;

it’s that his zombie tongue refuses to work,

denies him the skill to form the words

he tries to spit out,

like the brains he just ate.

 

In his abandoned haberdashery where he now lives,

he hangs his bowler next to

a pay phone that stands sentry

decked in black and silver,

flanked by a calendar and one yellowing, mildewed poster

that used to hold plastic pocket brushes,

long since gone. Its vertical handpiece

hangs like a bulbous nose,

lingering long.

 

Sores of decay create

a connect-the-dots pattern across

our protagonist’s back. He wheezes

even though he no longer breathes.

After all, trying to inhale—even as habit—

proves difficult when dealing

with a sucking chest wound,

left from one zombie

hunter’s errant shot.

 

 

 

MIRRORED IMAGES*

(for Jo Jo and Mom)

 

Two women sit, threading fingers,

intertwining generations.

 

Hands weave like vines of ivy

crawling along an ancient tree.

 

The mother—withered, infirm—

droops in the chair as she stares

 

at the other, her eyes vacant,

coated by the film of age.

 

The daughter—vibrant, lively—

rests soft palms over gnarled skin

 

that sags above bony fingers,

knuckles stiffened by arthritis.

 

So, the parent, now docile,

becomes nurtured by the child.

  

 

*Part of Just a Little Cage of Bone (2023)