“I scan rooms with a happiness detector,/which is like a broken Geiger counter/that stays silent while the bombs go off.”
I Drifted Off to the Sound of Your Voice
We were talking about why people are horrible
trying to get by in the horrible world,
or get off in it, get moving, get a life, &
I, equally engaged in outrage,
felt the soothing timbre of your voice,
the soft, exotic lulling of your voice, &
it was late, & I was at peace in the horrible world
like a Carolina parakeet gazing contentedly
from its branch at the curious biped
with iron rod that will erase its species.
So sorry. Your words were a lullaby
despite their contempt for red-
state ruffians in rumbling trucks &
how meth-head multiple-stabbing suspects
don’t age with any sort of grace.
I warmed, lulled. My eyes went easily to the grave
before you resurrected them, saying, Hey,
you there, your pleading a pleasant thing
to wake up to in what, for me,
had become a breath of bliss.
Seasonal Depression
New year, & everyone I encounter
explores the sick & sad & dark
by complaining while drinking
wine, beer, or clear liquor,
which leads to conversations about booze.
Why do folks slightly in their cups
want to talk about their cups
as though there have been no better
scientific discoveries than fermentation
or we’ll look through a telescope &
see that rabbit sipping saké on the moon?
If it hadn’t been gray & nasty by day,
if the sky didn’t dim so early,
friends would go through hours &
not mention sorrow, text a crying emoji
over photos of their faces,
detail how much malt is added to a brewing vat
along with hops. No one would explain
the three stages of grieving at a wake.
I scan rooms with a happiness detector,
which is like a broken Geiger counter
that stays silent while the bombs go off.
I see raised glasses or empty ones,
along with strangers chatting
about which flavors of schnapps are best
to pour on a night like this.
Traveling Riverside Blues
Sunset at 5:28, just as I’m beginning my trek
from the hidden shadowy niche of Queen Shoals
half an hour south to Charleston.
Snow rushes, heavier. The storm,
finicky at first, has made up its mind
to bluster & rage. Temperature dropping,
the roads will freeze before they’re buried.
In my little Ford, how long do I have
to reach my end before night ensnares me
or a sheath of white conceals the icy blade?
Factor in a reduction of speed on the Interstate
for safety’s sake—will it be enough?
I can’t count all the times I’ve journeyed
when the weather turned against me,
others when I’ve locked myself away at home
while sunlight promised the lie of a passable way.
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy, which was released with Brick Road Poetry Press in 2021, and two novels. His poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Mid-American Review, Harvard Review, River Styx, and other journals. An ex-convict, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.
