The Process of Becoming Smaller
When the days go timid as a blind mouse
my goose flesh will sag like a rice pudding.
Eyebrows of a thousand motions,
as alive as a galvanised corpse.
The reanimated quiver of a left eye,
adjoining muscles contort into an ox jaw grimace.
A morel nose designed to shatter,
fighting the solid shade of it's being.
The cadaverous contraction of a smile
is in the process of becoming smaller,
callous as a rosary
beneath a bistro of greasy hair.
About Grant Tarbard
I am the former editor of The Screech Owl, co-founder of Resurgant Press, a reviewer, and a poetry reader for Three Drops From A Cauldron.
I am the author of the collection As I Was Pulled Under the Earth (Lapwing Publications), as well as the chapbook Yellow Wolf (Writing Knights Press). My third book, Loneliness is the Machine that Drives the World (Platypus Press) was released in May of this year. I have two pamphlets on the horizon, one with Indigo Dreams, one with Three Drops Press.
First published on 15/12/2015
The lover, wrapped up in a snug blanket,
a cocoon she'll prize apart when paper
cut sheaths of a late dawn break over the
mechanical tick of the horizon.
Her tangle of eyes, compressed tight into
the sofa cushion, ignore the chalky
pigmented powder of a diffracting
winter, loyal to an image of the
past. I worry about floating, how long
do I sit here? I dangle on a string
of ears listening to your chest rise and
fall as if its attached to a ballon.
I ignore all sounds but whispers of ghosts,
thrushes singing in their winter garden.