Three Poems, Joshua Merchant

Sun Dial

a woman cornered finds a tooth to sink even

if they’ve been whittled down for others’ comfort.

I knew I truly hurt my mother when she held the belt.

I crumbled watching her let loose silent tears in search of comfort. 

praxis creates the muscle for self-care. she wasn’t always 

a cherry stick lit hospital; she sucked her thumb for comfort.

she wasn’t a heavy drinker. Enjoyed a nice wine. a spritzer. 

don’t recall a lot of water bottles. she chewed ice to my discomfort.

we were all as sensitive as my teeth. three cancers in one house.

the other? two and the reason I see geminis and seek comfort 

because we all get a bad wrap eventually, I try to show my true 

nature first. don’t ask about my bite if you want comfort 

ask Her. see if the wind howls a cheat-code for my nerves. she 

gives what I try to- patience for your comfort.

if I show you my browser history, the amount of receipts tethered 

to the corner down the street, will you show me your comfort?

maybe I’ll learn something. give me an interview to try, an error

bottled, a carrier blood vessel sifting through clouds to your comfort.

if not off; if not away- the ledge as fashion statement. ignore 

the spaces seen through me. all my greats have this comfort. 

the bruise we joke about being invisible; the many ways we learn

to clean a cut: I lay by the pool sweating in discomfort

The Headless Horsewoman

in another poem from another

world ago I mention 

an axe in my face. 

I never told you about the hands that threw it

there. funny story, a woman with a raincloud 

for a head actually believed her mother

when she was told I was a dirty 

motherboard. when I survived her 

I asked of what another bark-toned

nose like mine did to hers. 

her head dispersed. I don’t know if 

my eyes melted but I could feel my face 

painting my toes red. told my momma;

she said my mouth was closed and sent 

me back to her- I asked the headless woman 

what happened. she said I blew on her 

too hard and wielded her sword. 

I would’ve popped her but there was nothing 

there. I had no weapon, no tools 

from another poem with an axe in my face

Pack A Day

She sits on the patio holding a dollar’s worth of life.

or maybe tapping the opposite; the cool breeze 

meant to air out the house splitting the smoke 

between grass and couch is more honest. If I 

asked for a list of names leaving her face drifting 

in furrows she’d giggle. somewhere an ungrateful 

farmer became a tool rusting in the rain. Gods laugh

at those who think themselves lightning; caress 

the scorched earth with two fingers knowing 

somewhere the soil is still good. 

the scorched earth caresses Her with two fingers; still, 

the soil is good. She is held on the patio. sitting. a dollar’s 

worth of life. or maybe believes god is laughing at Her 

lightning. the cool breeze slamming the door 

between the living room and outside is just as honest. 

being outside reminds her She’s free to cry but a halt 

cannot exist where rust will take its place in the rain. 

when I asked for the location of hands to be crafted 

into good luck charms she giggled.

I’d drape the living room with the hands of bill 

collectors like christmas lights just to hear more giggles. 

next, the palms promised as thrones - two fingers 

snipped; shoved into the scorched earth - She’ll caress 

during the rebirth of the good / die wicked. the wild die quiet. 

the scorned and depleted are born outside waiting for rain. 

She is a patio holding a dollar for safe keeping for life. 

at least natural disasters are honest. torches have 

no reason to complain to lightning. 

ever ask a fool the difference between a solar beam 

and a strike of lightning? She asked me this; nervously I giggled. 

one has already lived fully, the other, spur of the moment; both 

are honest. one’s impact is based solely of that, a force, the other’s 

not seen as bad or good. just a necessary experience, a part of life. 

I guess both are, huh. you smell that? finally, rain.

somewhere an ungrateful farmer is putting a rabbit’s foot to shame - 

his hand dangling around my neck as I play in the rain. my mother 

sits on the patio waiting for a second strike of lightning. She is a god. 

a majician. almost feral; testing one of her theories about life. 

when she finished her cigarette and nothing happened 

she giggled. I ran to the patio excited, how’d I do? my first 

attempt at flying. you did good. even when she lied, he was honest. 

in her eyes I won’t always be honest. I don’t think she minded 

if it meant I wouldn’t have to be a souvenir in the rain, 

or dead to be good, passionate without the lightning. 

to be - to be the face - to be in the face of fire 

and softly giggle. to be - to be in the eye 

of any storm and still in awe of life. 

the cool breeze slamming the door between the living 

room and the child who smells like outside is just as honest 

as them laughing like a god discovering lightning.

being outside reminds them they’re free to be dirty 

and laugh about it in the rain. they tell their mother 

they already showered. she giggles.

the child soaking the carpet doesn’t make 

them good or bad. it makes them young. 

She remembers that life.

Joshua Merchant is a native of East Oakland exploring what it means to be human as an intersectional being. They've had the honor to witness their work being published in 580Split, Eleven Eleven, and The Rootwork Journal.