two poems by derek lessard

true ocean

Facebook fast

has left you starved,

you dance a dance of tyrants,

driving cars trying too hard.
Goodnight, alliecat.

Fuck your tries

at leafblown palaver.
Layawayed returns

change into faces

and Miss Revenants

I adore from porn,

faces I adore

from soft with whoms

and soft withouts,

jerky movements.
I am a hawk, our rants

aren’t falcon with her rabbit.

Wings have flown her flag.

You change into, folkloric.
I am a hunter,

though of shotgun’s kick

I am afraid-

though it fires blanks

I am a hunter,

however gunshy.
You’re dismissed from school early

without question during deer season.
Director’s cuts

trailerpark a matrimony

on scars your pales survey.
Hitch beneath

foundationed blueprint.

You’ll want a floorplan

for the waterbodies

legends overlooked.
Can you tell

the weekend

from your week?
Can you tell

the weekend

from your week?
I will unchart you, I will know

the music of your forest.
I will unchart you, I will know

the music of your forest-
hidden cameras you have hacked,

harddriven crash rubbishes

in shutterspeed erosion.

a common age
to return
to a religion
of some kind.
Parents not had sex in years-
mom watches Dexter
clean up real nice,
his taken baths
relax her nerves,
exclaim a look
at’is cute lil walkin’way buns,
real nice.
Looks at her son
that way sometimes, too-
disgusting, yes,
but what
he’s always hated
about her, feels like
substitute teacher
for her husband
on Saturday nights,
her invites-in
for face itches,
crawl in-bed-withs-
asks the same,
snacks disguising midnight
to stomach caws-
a vampish scratch, almost-
Animal’s wounded,
aromatic is its victory-
underwear stink,
sweetsour gunpowder reek,
boyish female body odor
of dirty gym socks,
hopes not to smell
of those athletics,
A boy loving his cat-
elder mane of roan
in gray agreements
with wild calico
of feral youth-
never falling
She conscripts your help
to put her in the bathtub
for her nightly trickle of a drink,
she wines meows at you,
and when you pick her up
in your hands, an elevator up-
she mews even louder this time,
old woman in assisted living program,
nursing home is understaffed-
I fear the day
dear Ginger dies,
because it’ll get
my mom thinking
that way, too.
Talked in her room
so many years ago,
whens younger than-
now grownup,
grownout of.
Always asks me
to crawl in with her,
while she drifts off-
but I’m growing up,
growing outof.
Feel bad for using dad’s
easy-slip moccasins-
spoolless threadthroughs
blunting boardcreaks,
always unhearing
cigarette leaves.
Too together as a kid-
got along too well,
not ashamed of-
childhood hideously mistimed,
shim for musty hiss
at laughter’s replicum.
Father’s takenness to drink
all but divorced them once-
gunsight gap’s a cleft between-
separation’s a refusal
of a pronouned I.
True rebellion
pays its own way:
No more reliance,
no more severance,
no more dependence
on parents for our rents.
Our parents, ourselves.
Not professional,
not miracle
bore a hole
in calibers mundane-
be it needle,
barrel of
wax interchangeable.
Purrs habituate-
rascally pets confess,
toady to their domicile-
drear deference
to drearier respectables,
fawn latenight breakfasts,
skinny oval slivers halfmoon,
emeralds haunting up at you-
Rabbit hindpaws, hatpulled
through marble muscles-
doughyface starved,
fed on, fasting
foodless junkfood-
a common age
to return
to a religion
of some kind.
Ask what
she thinks
of afterlives,
says “I don’t know.
You always get here
slower than Santa Claus.”
Then I ask
what she thinks
of her life now:
“I don’t know with whom.
Updike, maybe
is my guess.”
Derek Lessard lives in a small basement apartment in NE Washington, DC. If you happen to stumble across him on the street, he might walk right past you, even if he’s known you personally for years. If you upset him, expect an almost immediate deletion from his Facebook account, followed by a re-add request the next day. Derek likes riding in cars and long walks on the beach!