Two Poems
Brandon Lupetti
it’s ok to die during winter
what I mean is that it’s difficult to
justify anything. If I eat this apple, then
I shit a seed which grows
a tree is cut down to make
paper and floorboards are burnt to
ash will poison at least six
babies are born with extra
limbs are then the main source of
nutrients are depleted from the
soil is now sand and nothing can
grow ing old is acid
rain is oil is thick is
water now hot and
boiling rocks bubble in
my stomach is lined with
concrete flakes chip off
buildings fall on our
houses turn to snow and memories, just piles of
cotton candy is the only thing
you’ll miss, you say. I disagree; there
is so much to destroy, which means there
is even more to maintain. You laugh because
I make myself sweat over these things. You say
It’s ok to die during winter because the world needs warm.
But if you die, then my Earth dies twice. I say
it’s okay to die during winter as long as it’s June.
the math behind accidents
They linger
like acousmatic smells or phantom italics on words that are
bold. Your aunt, mob wife cadence like hair rollers and
wallpaper. Her husband, a jowl that slops like a kind dog.
The uncle you stole pills from. The cousin who liked burning
spoons. They hang around hallways like old bars. They make
your feet smell and your clothes wrinkled, move you around in
your sleep and put thoughts in your head about blood and flesh.
Dreams of dead people are voicemails. They visit in tidal handshakes,
always facing away. They are the corners of bedrooms
the faces in folded clothes they write the math behind
accidents they are the voice in the back of your head
calling your own name they are the air conditioning the hum
of the fridge the bathroom fan the midnight motorcycle
when I’m not trying, I see ghost round-abouts
like light leaks, tacit glitches into high dimensions
and traffic jams. Lucent walkers circling towards a finite
heaven, only for an instant, before they all turn
their heads and disappear. In bed, I close my eyes
and see a great flash of light whip over my storm doors,
knowing that a ghost is going where it needs to be.
Brandon Lupetti writes, “I am currently in my Junior year, and I’m from Hackensack, NJ. Poetry is radical and life is also a pretty good thing.”