question asked by Miriam Sagan
Hemlock blight poisons the poisoners,
brings death to a deadly grove.
The arthritic dog has taken to seizures,
few dog years left, perhaps not one.
So-&-so died the other day
holding his favorite guitar with a broken string.
Poetry doesn’t save a single life,
though maybe it extends a few.
I smell wild onions in the grass &
think this is bound to be the end.
I’m trying to sound reassuring,
but can’t predict a minute of the future.
Spare a few dollars, any carnival psychic
happily will tell you the good news.
--
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.