Three poems by Turk Oiseau

The Gift

I am trying to form a syllogism
but I can't turn the spigot on.

It begins with enormous loss
that crams you to the ground.

It takes months to dare to think
that loss is a kind of a gift

But what is that gift exactly --
is it authority on the subject of pain?

What good is it to be an expert
on knowledge no one with 1/2 brain would want?

What sort of gift is tears and who
would stand in line to taste them?




Ophelia -- 2011

I feel you,
and I feel you feel me too

I want to ask how
one floats laded down

with so much information?
Everything

that doesn't kill us
makes us sadder

Like a mermaid
tangled in a net

you have given up
gasping for good.

Love Which Is Lousy

 

Live in the forest where moisture

gleams from every limb
our plaintive harvest fills the air.

I know we aren't friends

and yet we are close.
I mark and deposit,

I whisper to the dendrites

my affection for your flesh
No one knows you
the way like I do.

I am desperate for your

scratch, see me how
I hover in your fur.



Turk Oiseau has been previously published in Nightsbridge. He is Macedonian.  He is a CPA by day but loves the Imagistes at night, especially Charlie Parker, another kind of bird, and his favorite American, H.D.