New poems by Michael Igoe “Lure of the Hunt, In the Same Breath, Exhibits”

aerial photography of pine trees during daytime

(c) Nicolai Durbaum on Unsplash Images.

Lure of the Hunt

It’s a loss of love,                                                                                                                                                               not the loss of life.                                                                                                                                  A sharp knife jellied                                                                                                                                             all of your ten fingers.                                                                                                                                    It  knew completely,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               you’re defiant quarry.                                                                                                                                 Tinder to paper,                                                                                                                                              then smoke to fire.                                                                                                                                                   Soon to be extinguished                                                                                                                         by a downpour’s advent                                                                                                                       free from its magic trap.                                                                                                                                    It devises freedoms                                                                                                                                best kept by newness.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         In unknown ages                                                                                                                                      or bloodshot eyes.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Let’s make a final exit                                                                                                                                                       from the familiar cage.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            For a different color,                                                                                                                                             to glow in the irises,                                                                                                                                   same as on one arm.           

In The Same Breath                                                                                                         

Much appreciated,                                                                                                                                                more often reviled.                                                                                                                                                Not ever possessing                                                                                                                           a right kind of radar.                                                                                                                                Everything couples                                                                                                                                               with insistent lights.                                                                                                                                   I know how to swim                                                                                                                                           but I’m still standing.                                                                                                                                                                        I can feel the grasp                                                                                                                                         from another hand.                                                                                                                                                                               A wolf in sheep’s clothing,                                                                                                                                      with his hand on his wallet.   


Blind as a bat                                                                                                                                                                    but a prowler.                                                                                                                                                                                                                         In wait for a quarry,                                                                                                                                                               one easily recognized.                                                                                                                                                                I got this itch                                                                                                                                             I can’t scratch.                                                                                                                                             There’s real meaning,                                                                                                                                                                                    in everything I say.                                                                                                                                                      I hope I can find                                                                                                                                                                             a darkroom photo                                                                                                                                       of last year's body.                                                                                                                                       It’s most likely buried                                                                                                                                                                                 in a museum collection.        

Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA),, Avalanches In Poetry National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

New poems from Michael Igoe

Re-published poems by 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 Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: