Fabrice Poussin 

Cinq Poemes

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Acid Campfire 

 

It might be Tuesday in the midst of June

a calendar droops from a rusty tack

confused in its crumbling sepia tones

they can’t quite recall who placed it there

or when, yet they have a vague impression

of a silhouette similar to theirs, decades before.

 

Someone set fire to a desk in the living room

to make a feast reminiscent of their teens

when they escaped to the dark forest

and sat around the makeshift hearth as magicians

when their dreams were still puerile

they could laugh without retribution. 

 

It may have been twenty years ago or perhaps one

they have not ventured to the streets in ages

subdued by an existence without imagination

they slouch in boneless bodies 

glassy eyes into landscapes no one else can perceive

they might well become part of the wooden floor.

 

They are five, perhaps twenty without a will

to stand or change the channels on the antique screen

they did laundry once and left it to rot

it was weeks ago, should they ask the neighbors?

but swimming through inches of dirt

wallowing in remnants of forgotten orgies they lay.

 

Someday their abode will implode

for a mistake under the expected influence

all who have survived will finally find a brutal end

in the flames of oddly concocted hallucinations

for a life without debt in a pricey world

too weak to face the humility of decent days. 

 

Discount Store Haven

 

This one boasts an arm in a mud-soaked cast

it seems with many messages in gruesome sharpie.

 

Another laden with a makeshift tablet of cardboard

wrote a few words to retell of eternal miseries.

 

All have myriad stories to recount for the willing listener

a war gone wrong on the home front many jobs lost

 

Addictions to numb the senses of the old carcass

riddled by the traces of needles and unfortunate encounters.

 

Sitting by the entrance of the giant discount store

seeking assistance from those who shop for a dollar.

 

I wonder why they choose such cathedrals of sadness

to receive sympathy from hard-working janitors.

 

A stolen shopping cart nearby or a rusty bicycle

they might consider the outskirts of a country club

 

or the great malls filled with luxurious outlets

theaters, eateries, and overpriced brand-name shops.

 

Welcome to Methlehem

 

It seems always the same gang

adorned with flashing lights

blue steel and supercharged Broncos.

 

Nothing but peace in the bright hours

when rains flood away the grime

and the weary sleep in psychedelic hues.

 

A daily occurrence on her journey home

is to ponder all those abandoned futures

to favor a glass pipe loaded with bright crystals.

 

This eve again she witnesses the gloom

a half-clad silhouette thin as a ghost

strange bracelets seal his fate behind his back.

 

He will ride into a glorious Southern sunset

to see his kin soon when all is well

for a moment as he settles his accounts.

 

Lucky for him next day or so he will return

his paraphernalia kept warm for him

by another loving soul ornate with obligatory tattoos.

 

The living no longer ventures into this land

of chemical mists and malodorous shrouds

tomorrow the same scene will be as time stands still. 

 

Shroud of Pain

 

In the bright evening sun

a young dusk set upon a joyful day

for miles into a distant horizon.

 

But darkness is no afraid of the sun

in a heart yet so fragile for this life

it knows how to settle in frigid ice.

 

Alone behind the door she awaited the news

anchored onto hope for a little longer

hours to change to months perhaps. 

 

Yet the shroud fell upon her lips

drowned in a sudden shower of sorrows

a flash of darkness under clear skies.

 

She fell to her knees before a stranger

alone with the grief so suddenly gifted her

the phone still crying in her weakened grip.

 

Pleading with those deep blues she asked

why he too must follow the herds

on such a glorious eve to join eternal sleeps.

 

The Comfort in Her

 

She may never know 

the comfort that is in her

power of warm spaces unknown

to mortal commons.

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Like the infant who once found refuge

in the depth of her entrails

the poet dreams of this world

where at last he may find peace. 

 

May she ever feel the plea

barely uttered in the fear

that she will shy away in the mist

and close her arms to the quest?

 

He dreams in the restless nights

of the gaze, the smile, and the kiss

as the embrace grows tighter

to give him life again. 

 

A longtime friend of the Macabre, Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published in 2021 and 2022 by Silver Bow Publishing. 

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