FOUR POEMS
Dan Wriggins
News From Heaven
A long-defunct satellite plummeted to earth and crashed
in the sand pit behind Jack’s property. I was rubbernecking
from the sofa, the hum of a pork chop still echoing in my ears,
when I heard Jack pull on his jeans and rush outside. As long
as I had known him, Jack exuded a lethargic stonerismo
which I came to admire and even depend on after years
of initial bewilderment. But there he was, brow glistening,
eyes sparkling, hauling sheets of sooty aluminum
from the sand pit to his shed with incredible urgency.
More space trash was falling: bent solar arrays
shattering on impact, propulsion tanks making small craters
in the sand. I hollered at Jack to come inside, but Jack kept
running around the pit, arms outstretched, head cocked back
like an outfielder, angling to catch every piece of falling debris.
“Jack,” I shouted, “you have so much to live for, think of Max
and the crew! Think of the unreleased Xbox games!”
No reaction, just manic zeal for the raining metal. “Jack,
think of me. I need you. You’re my buffer. You’re my planet
returning, or whatever! What terror could I face
without you?” By now, the shower was over. Jack finished up
and came inside. His eyes returned to familiar dull hazel. Oh,
to have no faith and be proven wrong.
My Previous Neck
Before we go any further, I consider it my duty to disclose
information regarding the matter of my previous neck.
Prior to my current unit, I had another, seriously distinct
specimen. It was rugged and purposeful, never straying
into the field of “meaty.” It adapted miraculously to any
and all collar styles. Rumor holds that its sublime curvature
inspired an enclave of prestigious civil engineers
to revitalize several midwestern cities. My scarf slipped
once at a Market Street bus stop, and Bruce Willis howled
with jealousy from his limousine. The sharp gasps
and enraptured stares at the Mini Mart soon turned
from annoyance to hindrance, and after weeks of
deliberation, I had my neck replaced with a replica
of average appearance. I can assure you that I have never
regretted my decision. I go about my day with no children
pointing, no wolf whistles from community adam’s apple
fetishists, no predatory offers from so-called ascot model
scouts. Still, there are moments, when I’m walking home
from the corner store or the bus stop, looking up at
the hollow skulls of clouds, when I miss the security,
the strength, the tingly comfort of my specialness
which blurred, temporarily, the otherwise alarmingly
legible receipts of a pitiful lifetime.
Stephen’s Boat
David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young
were hanging out on Stephen’s boat in the spring of 2022.
“So, what have you guys been up to?” said Stephen. “I just
got back from a long trip,” said Neil. “Cool, man,” said
Graham, “where to?” “I’m not sure,” said Neil.
“Cool,” said Graham. “I remember a few things. Someone
handed me a rose, but I couldn’t see who it was.
And they were wearing gloves,” said Neil. “That’s wild,”
said David. “And then I remember an eagle and a dove.
They were both crying,” said Neil. “Hold on, man,”
said Graham, frowning, “are you messing with us?”
“No, man, I’m not messing with you. The eagle and
the dove were there, together and crying,” said Neil.
“Man, aren’t those lines from ‘Love the One You’re With,’”
Graham said, turning to Stephen, “that’s from ‘Love the One
You’re With,’ right?” “Yeah,” said Stephen, “except the eagle
flies with the dove, it doesn’t cry.” “Wait, really?” said
David, “I always sang ‘cries.’” “It’s ‘flies,’” said Graham.
“Yeah, It’s ‘flies,’” said Stephen. “Man, I always thought
it was ‘cries,’” said Neil. “No, it’s ‘flies.’ Love must carry
on, and so forth,” said Stephen. “Either way, man, I saw
these birds crying,” said Neil. “Why do you think they were
crying?” asked David. “I don’t get it,” said Graham, “they had
each other. Isn’t that the point of the song?” “I told you,
man, this isn’t about the song,” said Neil, ashing
his cigarette over the side, his voice beginning to wobble.
Along the River
I came back not too late from the bar
by a path I sometimes take which runs south
along the river, still grinning over a joke
of Gilad's, when my wife informed me that a demon
had followed me home. “What are you talking
about?” I said, frowning and peering back
across the mudroom. “A demon,” she said,
“he’s here. He must’ve followed you home.”
I didn’t see anyone, mortal or infernal, but she
often notices what passes me by, and I had put
back a few rum and cokes, so I was creeped out.
“What should we do?” I asked. “What can we do?
It’s bedtime.” So my wife made up the guest
bed, we brushed our teeth and went to sleep.
I came down the next morning to find her
lost in thought, leaning against the counter. “Is he
still here?” I asked. “His name is Bringer of Balance,”
my wife said, “we chatted last night.” “Oh,” I said,
“what about?” “All kinds of things,” my wife said,
“he was so comforting, like he really knew me.
He wanted me to pick up my cello again. He told me
age comes on strong, and that my dad only talks
the way he does because he’s afraid, of death, but also
of his mind closing up before death,
and he confirmed mosquitoes are from hell.” “Sound’s
more like an angel name than a demon name.”
I said. “He’s a demon.” my wife said, turning on
the garbage disposal.
Dan Wriggins is a poet and songwriter. He records and tours with the band Friendship. He lives in Philadelphia with his dog, Roy.