- Laudate Dominum
- Lit stalks stitch patterns over moss-mute boughs,
- The patched procession of winter and early dawn.
- A dormant vine’s engrafted web soon glows,
- Emblazoned tongues along the runged oration.
- O distant fire, stirred to renew in rose
- The ice-crowned crevice and the gelid grain,
- Remind us of that language thawed earth knows,
- Roots spelling pulp-white limbs in loam again.
- Severance
- It’s not unlike the killing of rabbits, quick
- And brutal, and it leaves a lingering sick
- Feeling that takes some time to overcome.
- Harvest days on the farm my chest grew numb
- With the work, until we could finally freeze
- The meat. Even then the hint of unease
- Was there, the general gloom that wants to stay
- When any mortal life takes another’s away.
- And you really never get used to that,
- The whiff of finality in every set
- Task and familiar rhythm of labor’s give
- And take. The shock that comes, bolt from above,
- As soon as “terminated” settles in.
- At some point, while the details rattle on,
- No matter how quickly done, and with tact,
- Somewhere in the background still looms the fact
- You see in the face turned to ash, then red.
- The air drips adrenaline. Each word that’s said
- Or not said trembles in the throat and hands.
- At last, tears and outrages past, the victim stands
- And turns not quite sure where the door is, like
- Lazarus still bound, unable to speak,
- Staggering back into the light he had
- Almost completely forgotten in death’s cold shade.
- The Car Salesman
- Man minus the Machine is a slave; Man plus the Machine is a freeman.
- Henry Ford
- Angelic metal measures out the light
- In angled shafts. They sharpen the contoured forms
- Of cars sweating out this summer’s afternoon.
- It’s show-time again. Cheeks of leather. Bright
- Eyes shift like mirrors in the sun, and swarms
- Of honeycombed words purr along the promising tune.
- The familiar theme of perfection is renewed
- In ergonomic features, each designed
- To ease the weight of pilgrimage with all
- The comforts of a home. And so, the road
- Transforms in his magician’s gesturing hand
- From tired commute into the elusive goal.
- I can almost smell the apples and the hay
- Through those windows when they glide like butter down
- With barely a touch of my finger at the door.
- And miles of rolling wheels beneath the play
- Of well-oiled pistons brush with the breath of a gown
- As he steers me into the cool shade of the store.
John Gallagher holds a B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of Dallas. He and his family live in the Northwest.