by Josh Corson
AFTER YOUR FATHER’S FUNERAL
I LOSE YOU IN THE LIGHTS.
A fistful of cowhide,
haloed & white-hot—shot
across the church’s parking lot.
Choking the stitches,
we throw our shoulders out
trading fastballs, fighting
why all men become specters.
We bury a lip
from the can of tobacco
hidden in your suit jacket,
crumpled across the hood
of your dads Dodge Ram.
Chest hot from the engine
coughing all night.
Soured spit bleeds
through our teeth as we leave
dull & dirt colored puddles
on the concrete,
tiny fountains of youth.
From a distance,
we look sharp: ties, nice shoes.
What you’ll do with that 9mm
in the glovebox six months from now,
I’ll stretch a lifetime
trying to catch.
EVERY CHRISTMAS
I drive by your house
in our our old neighborhood.
How many coats
of paint to cover
where you wished
the world away?
Heart a dandelion
blown out your back.
Splatter shot.
Hand rigored
around the gun.
I’m in there. Stuck
in a corner or floorboard.
The clippers slick hum
buzzing around the ceiling.
Hair falling like rain.
It’s you. Not a lamp lit
on some other boys desk,
a basketball spinning
on the tip of his finger.
I should’ve crawled
through the window
like I used to.
Woken you up.
Went fishing
like we planned.
Can’t you hear
the catfish,
croaking on a dock
down the street,
begging their god
for another day?
JOSH CORSON is a literary artist originally from Tampa, Florida. He holds a B.A. in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago and an A.S. in Sound Engineering from Full Sail University. Currently, Josh is an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Pittsburgh. He has received residencies from Tin House, Juniper Institute, the Atlantic Center for the Arts, and Winter Tangerine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Crab Orchard Review, december, Entropy, The Offing, and others. You can view his work at joshcorsonmakes.com.