We're super lucky here at Go Deeper Press because we have friends who are authors and poets and all types of other writers, and sometimes they bless us with new work that lights up our day for at least a good half of it. During "these times," there is sometimes no greater gift. And why not share the wealth? Here are three new poems by Abbie Normal, whose new poetry collection, Odyshape, you can get right here in digital format and on Amazon in print.
The death of everyone.
Sometimes this affects me,
sometimes it doesn’t.
I love some people,
and at the age of forty
I surprisingly don’t hate
all that much anymore.
The knives thrown on the front lawn
like toy soldiers I’ve outgrown.
All I have is my embrace.
A passionate grip with my lover.
My weathered arms around my family,
connected through Heart, not blood.
My hands entwined in Rosary beads.
Or my fingers wrapped around a mad man’s throat.
The mentally insane
aren’t seen as oracles anymore.
We’re committed before we get
too rowdy in our proclamations.
I have a guess, a wish, a hope.
Not holy. Not saintly. Not loving.
Just dreams of a dictator swinging
from a lamppost.
Kept my Rosary in my front pocket
all day today,
Mary poems and a vintage electric chair
keeping me company.
Obsessed with my belly button,
praying for myself,
my umbilical rope symbolic,
born caesarian on the Ides of March.
I’m waiting for the final stab in the back
before I give up on my peers.
Until then I’ll just kiss them Judas style,
razorblade resting underneath my tongue.
I clutch the beads,
moving my lips
with the rhythm of kind nuns
on acoustic guitars in Sunday School.
‘He’s got the whole world in his hands.’
What happens when he drops it?