Poems by Michael Igoe : “In Certain Climates” & “Elliptical”

In Certain Climates

Right over there                                                                                                                                                     there are infants                                                                                                                                               darkly fondled,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      roaring mothers                                                                                                                                          roll on their sides.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Trying to console,                                                                                                                                                         but seem sunless,                                                                                                                                drinking together                                                                                                                             balanced droughts                                                                                                                                   of dynamic violence.                                                                                                                            It’s a sped up version                                                                                                                                    of an empty landscape.         


Rumors stymied                                                                                                                                                                        dreams of dying.                                                                                                                                                       Panic laid to rest,                                                                                                                                                                                                                     through mourning.                                                                                                                                                    Over barren fields                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            slight brown hands                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       grasp at their allies.                                                                                                                                           Only when unbound                                                                                                                                                    they sweat and suffer                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    stripped of vision                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              they agreed  to beg.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           They talk it over                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       at off brand meals.                                                                                                                                                 They joined the ranks,                                                                                                                                                                  of a blackened captain                                                                                                                     who believes tobacco,                                                                                                                                                is a cleansing penance.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       They go rent rooms                                                                                                                           they’re shared with                                                                                                                                                    former hairdressers   
retired safecrackers.            

 Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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