Joe Nicholas
Kid Icarus

I will father mountains
with my steps, reduce
my tragedies to whisper.
I will not wait
too long,
and too silent. I will not fall
where others have fallen. I will not
break
where others have broken. I will leap
into the volcanic dust, and emerge
the other side

a star.

A Love Poem

I remember the first time he hit her.
I was four, and had just
thrown my mashed potatoes onto the floor.
He grabbed me by the arm
so tight I started to cry.
Mother screamed
for him to let me go, and he listened,
turned around, and
back handed her one good, shouting,
"Don't tell me
what to do
in front of my boy,"
then he got up from the table,
grabbed his ninth beer
from the fridge,
and went down to the basement.
Mother came to me whispering, "Shhhhh, baby. Shhhh.
Daddy's just in one
of his moods,"
then she got on her knees
to wipe up my mess with a ragged blue cloth.

When she died he hung pictures of her
on all the walls.
I would find him sometimes
sitting at the kitchen table
with a pile of old photos
and a glass of scotch,
pretending he was only
"sorting through all her shit."

He died at 84,
alone in bed,
with a half-finished bottle
on the nightstand.

I cried in spite myself.

Now I sit here
rubbing my cheek,
trying not to forget
what happened tonight.
We were at the table,
and I was on my sixth beer.
You brought me a plate
of steak
and mashed potatoes.
I told you you knew
I hated mashed potatoes, but you said
it was a new recipe
with garlic, and onions,
and plenty of butter. You said I wouldn't
even taste the potatoes.

I threw the porcelain against the wall just to hear it shatter,
then backhanded you one good.
I almost thought you would cry
for a moment,
but then you caught me in the jaw, grabbed your seventh
beer from the fridge,
and left the house for
who knows where.

I never once saw Mother fight back,
and maybe that's why
I loved her,
and maybe that's why
I love you so much more.

I'm still at the table,
in your chair now,
on my who knows how many beer, rubbing
my cheek, and staring
at a cold plate of steak
and mashed potatoes.
I've dipped my finger into the muck
a few times.
You were right.

I can barely taste the potatoes.

_ _

Joe Nicholas is an experimenter, experiencer, and editor of The Screaming Sheep. His work can be found or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Chiron Review, Found Poetry Review, Fruita Pulp, Weave, and other wonderful magazines. He received his degree in Applied Psychology from Champlain College. He can be found at 8rainCh1ld.tk.

>> Back to Issue 18, 2015