This collection gathers poems centered on objects kept, found, or left behind that carry meaning.
skull
there you lay,
a sea of charcoal black.
bleached from blizzard snow,
yellowing in the thaw.
you bloom where you fell
beneath the oaks,
accompanied by
mold and morels.
once full-bodied and tall-of-tine,
you’ve shed your suede jacket
for something lighter—
understated.
gone is your antlered crown,
cut cleanly from your cap.
unearned decorum
on a wall.
leg bones scattered,
where you crumpled
gouged and scraped
by canines.
your spine nearby.
a puzzle.
your pieces missing.
so.
many.
missing.
“how did you die,”
I wonder aloud.
not by arrow
or bullet.
“you were sick, weren’t you?”
food and water
feet away.
gorged yet hungry,
quenched but famished
porous.
dust.
you
would’ve preferred
my arrow.
greenhouse
her greenhouse:
the final stitch
to hold the warmth
a little longer.
the wind came
without warning
and found the seam.
shingles lifted.
walls creaked.
their small house groaned.
and outside
metal screamed
and tore them open.
in the morning,
the light revealed.
panels ripped.
frames split
at the bolts.
she stood there,
in her nightshirt
cold.
our red and white rocking chair,
the one with the checkered cushions,
went to Goodwill today
at her behest.
in our living room,
it rocked our daughters.
in their bedroom,
it held their plushies.
that old chair—
wicker faded,
cushions stained with milk and juice.
handed down from her aunt
and uncle,
bought from an art student in the 60s.
one of a kind.
it felt wrong to get rid of it,
but I carried out the sentence
in our burgundy caravan.
I looked around after,
while my oldest dug for treasures,
hoping
it would find a home.
I turned to leave
and there it was on the floor,
beside an IKEA end table,
abandoned.
the sticker on its armrest
reading…
that damned bookshelf
By Nick Viau
green, white, red
a scheme only a holiday would love.
green wreaths with red ribbons,
hanging from white doors
with intricate brass knobs gleaming
under the soft glow
of streetlamps,
in little cul-de-sacs
with virgin homes,
brick chimneys,
and juniper bushes.
white, red, green
the colors of flags.
in flight over twenty countries
patterned with packaged purpose—
striped, boxed, crossed.
whether limp or flapping
with violent implications,
rattling flagpoles.
feeling the power
of God’s breath.
red, green, white
colors that shouldn’t work
but do…kinda
on our bookshelf,
in our family room
red shelves,
green cabinet,
white baseboards,
holding books
filed half-hazardly
and tossed back into place
with rips and stains,
in mismatched dust jackets
packed high and tight
or loose where landed
green, white, red
a monolith
hand-me-down’d
not heirloom’d
painted in colors
that have no acquaintance,
but shout at each other
across crowded rooms.
too fragile to move
too wrong for the room
too full of our family.
we’ve thought about it
(once, maybe twice)
but never long enough
to mean it
too ugly to give away
too ours to let it go
Nick Viau 