Three poems
/
By Matt Bunk
HAL HEARS NEWS OF HIS FATHER’S ILLNESS
And Idaho was a golden blaze where I held my grief
The flowers that could not be picked
Roots I could not pull
Black eyed susan heads turned away from me and mine (ours)
Towards a sun called the prince
Who had Certain skin and Certain eyes
And who walked in a Particular way
And who wore reflective sunglasses
That beamed the same gold light down onto his (and him)
THE GREEN HOUSE
Here’s what I want you to think about: a green house.
Think about a green house with a catalpa tree in the front yard.
Think about a green house with yarrow sprouting
In soft yellow strokes.
Think about late summer light.
A fox brushes by in the bushes.
A house cat sleeps in the drive.
Bean pods fallen in the yard.
A cascade of branches.
The scene fits a gold frame.
It’s just a painting.
You’re just a child
And your father tells you not to play in the street.
Inside the house, there’s a kitchen.
From the kitchen comes cigarette smoke and fish soup strains.
Go ahead, you can follow your nose.
There are almond cakes on the counter and the counter
Is soft yellow.
The linoleum underfoot
Is soft yellow.
The light from the window over the sink
Is soft yellow.
But this is just a story and you are just a child.
Your father tells you
To keep your elbows off the table at dinner.
Think now about the crickets at sunset.
About the humidity.
The trees here hum.
An old Raggedy Anne is laid by the broken screen door among
Muddy boots,
Bags of cat food,
And potting soil.
One leaf settles on the back step,
First of the season,
Soft yellow.
Something here is ending
But you are just a child
And your father tells you not to cry.
HOUSESITTING
We wake up with a dog named Rufus.
I make coffee in an unfamiliar machine
And get lost on my way from the kitchen to the patio.
A bluebird lands on a branch right at eye level
And you touch my knee.
I say again, “We should go to Italy.”
You say, “Who are the people who live like this?”
Rufus the dog nudges me.
The humidity is uneasy.
A blue butterfly lands on a sunflower and you kiss my neck.
“I feel strange being here,” I say.
“It’s all a strange coincidence,” you say.
You put your hands on my chest.
I lean down to kiss you.
You catch my necklace in your mouth.
After, we walk, wet-haired, through the city market
And listen to the city birds singing.
You pick pink peonies out of a white bucket.
I watch your hands.
You cup the flower heads gently
And slice through the stems cleanly.
The humidity is uneasy and I feel outside myself.
I’m in the blue ink drawing of Rothenburg that hangs over the desk
In the study where the dog, Rufus, sleeps.
Matt Bunk is a multimedia artist based in Boise, Idaho. They write about loneliness, childhood, and old houses of the Western United States. Matt's body of work includes poetry and essay as well as music, film, and devised theater. They have been published in My ___ on Mondays, Sage Country Fragments, and Paper Plane Press. Matt's work is a magpie with a greedy glint in its eye.