It’s the Tenderness That Kills You & Death is a Lunchable You Don’t Have Time to Put Together

It’s the Tenderness That Kills You

Intimacy is an execution, the touch of lightning bolts
disrobing your sense of self, someone else’s breathing
turning your campfire stories into buzzworthy obituaries
everything you thought you knew becoming trash

and you hate yourself for it, the undeclaration of your independence
the worst parts of yourself posing for the camera, shaky hands
digging into your chest and pulling out your heart, but it’s not really your heart
just another camera, all the magic in the world can’t hide the truth

you’re an illusion, all these years thinking you’re larger than life
that you alone possess the secret of joy, a flick of your wrist
and balled-up tissues on bedroom floors bloom into flowers
but they’re not really flowers, just antidepressants playing dress-up

now you’re being touched and it’s making you feel small and subservient
this is how it should be, kissing the scarred feet of those who’ll inherit the world

Death Is a Lunchable You Don’t Have Time to Put Together

I run into Floyd on my way to 7-Eleven
he’s back from Albany with a new best friend
sobriety
we light some candles and catch up

“I wanna be a volunteer dog,” he tells me
“hang out with cancer kids
make them feel better
because dogs can sense things most people can’t
the pains we don’t tell anyone
but I can sense those things too…
sometimes I think I’m part-dog”

then he reaches into his backpack
pulls out a bunch of drawings and sketches
they’re all the same subject
the Grim Reaper
they’re very good
“It keeps me reminded,” he tells me

I imagine Death
as a frustrated nude model
in a classroom
full of delusional artists
most of us get it wrong
but not Floyd

eventually we’re sick of being cold and he runs off
towards the light of 7-Eleven a couple blocks away

when I get there, he’s nowhere in sight
I’m in the mood for pizza, so I buy a couple pizza Lunchables
I feel like an asshole about it though, because if you want a pizza
don’t settle for something like pizza
we all deserve the real thing, whatever it means to you

as I walk home, I don’t even eat the Lunchables
I open ‘em up, crumble the crackers on the ground like a cheap fairytale
sprinkle the cheese on the front steps of houses I haven’t partied in
rub the sauce on the bodies of trees so it looks like they’re dying in a war

maybe in the morning, someone will put the pieces of the puzzle together

snow begins to fall, that Zen snow

peaceful and calm, like the city is giving you the silent treatment
but all I want is to hear a dog barking


Justin Karcher is a Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, New York. He is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015), the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs (CWP Collective Press, 2017), the micro-chapbook Just Because You’ve Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn’t Mean You’re Kanye West (Ghost City Press, 2017), Those Who Favor Fire, Those Who Pray to Fire (EMP, 2018) with Ben Brindise, and Bernie Sanders Broke My Heart and I Turned into an Iceberg (Ghost City Press, 2018). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review and co-editor of the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry (BlazeVOX [books], 2017). He tweets @Justin_Karcher

Photo Credit: Jordan Runyan, New Mexico Review Staff