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FIVE POEMS BY DAVID BANKSON

THE SEASON OF MAGICAL THINKING BY MILEVA ANASTASIADOU
December 15, 2018
FIVE POEMS BY JOHN MANCINI
December 17, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Alone”

 

It feels like breathing

Relaxing alone where no one can see

They don’t know you’re there;

They don’t even feel it

 

When I hear sounds

And turn to find none

My suspicion must be suffocating,

Sucking the expectation from the air

 

When I feel a touch on my shoulder

I recede from the feeling

As I turn slowly,

The traffic of nothing intensifies

 

I open my throat with a knife

And show what’s inside

But no one knows I’m there;

They don’t even feel it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“False Memories of Anywhere”

 

That outline against the curtain,

brightened by moonlight, draft, pikebend,

could be any careful chaos.

A roommate’s incomplete manikin,

a showerhead spraying an ocean

like some bruised cloud

that can’t stop its downpour,

an open closet door, a packed bag.

Our room stands at a solid body of lawn

that grows against another lawn

and on into country.

 

I recall its face.

I recall what we buried there.

Ragweed, memories.

A metempsychosis of a bronze age.

Dusk’s thin light dulls the air

until I can smell the remainder of impossibility.

It’s all pretense, but it’s sufficient for now.

Rain dilutes,

wisps of raincloud grow uncertain.

But deep down I know where,

and I feel it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Museum Tour”

 

Fossils are evidence of life, she says, but of life never destroyed enough to warrant a complete breakdown. But also, evidence of death. Of cold nights twisted in blankets. Of everything you love, wasted. But there we found them; in life, in death, in blankets, in love. What is a life without a bit of destruction to rebuild from? Here you will see a preserved trace of the spineless: Footprints, an unmade bed. Impressions in a sparkling snow drift. I say, I’m unsure how to say what I want to say. She says, at times, hardened parts remain in tact: tooth and bone, occasional armor never destroyed, only rebuilt. I say, I don’t know how to say what I need to say. She says, it is a clue to a life left unlived. I say, I don’t know, I don’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, etc.