Poetry: Selections from John Tustin

Death-Birds Glide

Death-birds glide

Above me, their

Shadows darkening

My form where I lie

Waiting for them

To stop circling

And make me

Their meal.

 

The blackness

Of their eyes,

The blankness

Of their beaks,

They circle and

They wait.

I am ready to

Give in but they

Cannot sense it

 

Yet.

 

Communication

Is silenced. The

Ability to move

Forward is quickly

Retreating.

 

Death-birds glide,

Casting their winged

Shadows upon this

Soul half alive yet

Desiccated with the

Aloneness of this

Very night, the moon

Laughing that laugh

Of the conqueror

Over the conquered.

 

They descend and I,

So ready to end this,

Tremble and wait

Like I have waited

For these slowly

Descending wings

Since I learned

I know just as much

Nothing

 

As I am.

Flags of Old Victories

I don’t go out anymore.

I don’t go out on dates

or meet friends for dinner.

At night I close my eyes

and think about old victories –

tattered flags fluttering in a burnt-up

warscape.

I think about sex

the way an armless man

thinks about putting on a pair of gloves

and dream at night

that my arms have been regenerated,

that the women come to me,

give me what I want and then go away.

 

I lie in bed tonight

and hope the rain will come.

The only two feral cats in the neighborhood

fight it out for territorial rights

right beneath my windows

and the flags of old victories

are set at half-mast.

The rain won’t come.

I’m So Small

I’m so small I can’t find myself.

I’m so blind

that the darkness doesn’t even seem to matter.

I’m so torn

that I laugh at the notion of a needle and thread.

I’m so deaf

to every sound except for the tick tock tick tocking.

 

I’m so small

I get lost between the words on the page.

I’m so blind

that I live in envelopes that hold the love letters

I have long lost.

I’m so torn

that I don’t bother to gather up my fallen guts.

I’m so deaf

that I can’t hear you

telling me that everything I’ve written can’t be true.

 

There is a pit

in the pit of my stomach

and it is split open now

and what grows from it is monstrous.

It’s monstrous

and yet it’s so small that I can’t see it.

It grows outward

and fixes itself like glue

all around in the dark of the dark.

It sticks the pages together.

It glistens like condensation on all the windows,

then paints them shut.

It’s turning the covers now

so that means it’s time for me to sleep.

 

I’m so small I can’t find myself,

not even when I’m dreaming.

My Love is a Secret

My love is a secret.

Don’t tell my mother,

don’t tell my brother.

Keep your friends in the dark.

Not the same dark we grope in,

of course –

a different dark.

 

And never tell my other lover.

He just wouldn’t understand.

He’s not dumb,

like you.

Wonderful like you.

Understanding,

like you

Blind,

like you.

 

I love you,

but shhhh!

 

It’s our dirty little secret.Hold my hand

under the kitchen table,

out of sight.

Hee hee hee.

Kiss me at the closet door.

Keep your zipper open

and your mouth shut.

That’s a good, obedient boy.

 

I love you

but don’t tell anyone.

Hee

 

-(then

presses her finger

to her

lovely

lying

lips.)

hee hee.

Sick for the Second Night in a Row

Sick for the second night in a row,

not throwing up but wanting to,

also not wanting to.

Sick for a different reason than last night,

this illness unknown

and since I’ve very likely passed

more than halfway through life

I no longer shrug off sickness,

assuming immortality.

I’m aware that any pain or illness could be It –

The Big One, The Last Gasp –

and that brings the fear to mingle with the hurt.

 

I lie in bed with the aching head and belly,

trying to sleep in the waning sunlight

and when I close my eyes

I conjure this woman

to soothe my nausea

and slake my endless sexual thirst,

the pang that never subsides.

I fall to sleep with my lips wrapped

around one smallish perfect breast,

my hand cupping the other one

and she’s whispering in my ear.

The words are unimportant,

it’s the whisper of her voice,

the kind whooshes of air, cool and sweet

that flow into my skull,

matching the cadence of my suckling,

whirling around inside me like leaves in autumn.

 

I fall asleep with my head in her lap.

 

When I wake up, feeling better,

no longer worrying about dying,

I’ll think about her some more

and she’ll say teasing sexy things,

she’ll spread open on the bed,

I’ll unroll her, get a little bit rough,

not too much but enough,

she’ll like it

and I’ll pretend for a moment as I’m snarling

that I’m immortal,

just like I did half a life ago.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last dozen years. For a complete list of his publication credits click here.