7.10 / September 2012

Three Poems

Eat Something Warm

listen to this poem

When struck by illness, the body
is the culprit of its actions
like a wet toothbrush.
         They say the body clinches
         and grinds its teeth while asleep

when the body is overtaken with stress.
The body is culpable for the stress,
too, guffaws the dentist.

         The body says:
         you remind me of myself when I was younger.

Let’s say the body, when young,
held a lung that fell sick,
         rendered by a gasper,
          lungs a melisma of wheezes:

the coughing always arrived at rest sans resistance.
Until the body declares:
the brush is overtaken by the tooth.


Go Fish

listen to this poem

If you keep making that face
it’ll get stuck that way,
and so it did.

If you keep making that face
you will have your father’s face.

If you keep making that face
you can exchange it for a matching face
like playing Go Fish.

Nod once for yes,
nod twice for no.

Nod once for the femoral artery,
nod twice for the ephemeral artery.

You knew that the circulatory system
would stagnate
if you kept making that face and yet

that’s exactly what you did.
You said found dead or announced dead,
because you think the living deserve all the credit and yet

you kept finding and announcing
your little heart out.

You knew if you kept making that face,
yours would wither to a still life:
a card never plucked from the deck.

Got any sevens?


Answers in the Affirmative

listen to this poem


In Philadelphia, I want to say
         “youse” and “y’all” in equal measure.
I want to say that
you should answer in the affirmative
         with an “alright.”


I want to live in a world
with a language
that has a second person plural.


In Philly you can say “iight”
or “ard” or “rd,”
         when answering in the affirmative.


Today, the world’s
seventy-percent water.
Why, then, couldn’t I
been born a submarine?


At home, by the Schuylkill River,
a shell rises from its submarined state.

I saw a tortoise shell without a tortoise
and it reminded me of a foreclosed home.


Tomorrow, the world’s
eighty-percent water.
And still I won’t
awaken moored beneath
the surface of the sea.


Any day now, will I wake without a home?
Yes, I answer, any day now.

         Alright, I answer.

Ronald Metellus is excited about spending his last semester of college in Istanbul this fall. Some of his work has appeared in The American Poetry Review, Hobart, Red Sky, and elimae.
7.10 / September 2012