MEH is Matthew E. Henry, a Pushcart nominated poet with recent works appearing or forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, 3Elements Review, Long Exposure, Longleaf Review, Poetry East and The Radical Teacher. MEH is an educator who received his MFA from Seattle Pacific University, yet continued to spend money he didn’t have pursuing a MA in theology and a PhD in education.
burning the boat
the wood is warped, worn beyond refashioning,
but this is irrelevant—his wife would never smile
within those walls. it could never be a home
no matter what its form. the smells steeped
in every fiber. the shallow scratches at its base,
tooth and claw marks almost smoothed away. almost.
in the raw light his tools reverse their trade,
realize the other side of the promise. his sons
stack cords in a clearing. at night flickering oil
release every knotted eye, each bloated tongue
floating in grains of gopher wood. to start again
room must be made. he sees the motionless sprawl:
bodies rotting like worms after a storm. grabbing limbs
from his flaming hearth, he began another task.
Elpis
I will give men . . . an evil thing in which they may all be glad of heart
while they embrace their own destruction.
~ Hesiod, Works and Days
people are overly satisfied with happy endings.
they forget the dark chase through woods, the foulness
of breath felt on almost hairless necks: the wolves
and witches— the things which cannot be named—
I summoned for just such an occasion. they barely escape,
so busy searching for a trail of crow-eaten crumbs,
signs pointing the path home I dragged into the underbrush.
humans don’t remember the frailty they inherent
from a mistake, the gods, fickle parents, or things
as easily avoided as never leaving home. the task
of reminding them has always belonged to the one
they cherished, but have never called by my true name.
the fairytales we tell
we know the monsters we have killed
and the many more we have given safe passage
through the hamlets of our hearts. hurricane lamps
dimmed to hide the sheen of serpentine eyes.
dirt thrown to conceal the chitinous click
of talons on cobblestone. we’ve often left the door ajar
and unwarded, sword and lance rusting out of reach.
we obscure signs in shrubbery, sending hunter,
woodsman, knight to the wrong address. by the time we hear
our skin screaming, teeth and hair set on edge, it’s too late.
with lives less guarded than a fae’s true name, we’re accomplice
with the cadaverous claws closing around our gorge,
hoping their promises are worth the price.