Three Poems by Peter Spagnuolo

Above: “The Repast of the Lion” by Henri Rousseau

Cartographer

The monkeys scold that I lost my way, I’ve gone
mad on the march through you, a hand on the whip—
your impenetrable wild I leave undone,
and tame your jungle waste—but wrecked my ship,
so I must spread you open, with no way back.
My rivals tell I’ve grown too old to play
the boy explorer, yet at that perfumed crack
where wells a secret font of youth, I lay
with my discovery, and drank there deep,
your fevered DeLeon. Let all the rest
think they blaze a hero’s path and keep
their claim, because one time their lips have pressed
your mouth: I broke the trail and laid you bare—
none maps you now, but first I walked out there.

Elegy Waiting Out a Snowstorm on I-95

You pawned the chainsaw, the indispensable tool
of your trade—nimble, climbing tree-tops high
above us all, lashed in the rustling, restless sigh
where lordly summer crowns the woods, a damn-fool
risky job, spike-footed and lopping off the dead,
stubborn, or merely unsuccessful crooked limb:
a man’s work. But what if, inside of him,
each man just wants to be the boy at play?
You lived to postulate this fugitive truth—a bed

in your father’s cellar, devoted mother
still feeding you, your clutter of discarded toys—
things that go fast, things to thrill to, make noise—
left all around the yard, as if there were some other
you chasing after the boy, a caretaker
to tidy up for the man. A father twice yourself,
but only half a dad: kids on the shelf,
like half-read books, too long, too slow, to stay
your focus. But you charmed us, big-hearted, you faker,

your eyes’ puddled luster, your brawny cheer—the hinge
that opened barred doors, swung them wide, and won
a pardon for each sin you’d smilingly outrun.
But this play caught you lying down: a blood-filled syringe
leeching your arm, a foul pooling in the sheet
where my brother found you, the hock-shop slip
tucked in your pocket. A pitiless black drip
reducing us drains you from our days: we pray,
and picture a boy’s best hours, fading now, salty-sweet;

mourning ourselves, who failed our beautiful, beloved cheat.

—AJS, 1987-2015

Dreams of the Flightless Birds

Grounded for life, looking down at his feet,
the Weka takes a payday loan
to stave off the repo;
_____________________the Kakapo
schemes on an all-included holiday in Cancun.

Grubbing the dirt, they flinch at
shadows thrown from on high, keel-bones
twitchy with phantom strokes:
the Hoopoe puts all his savings into
scratch-off Lotto tickets;
___________________________the Titicaca grebe
bets on breast enhancement surgery
bringing new opportunity; the Emu
looks for night-work, something easy
for a second paycheck, when
he would just be sleeping anyway.

Eyes darting up—baffled by the blue dome
where their feathered betters flit by,
whistling their sexed-up songs—

the flightless birds make excuses,
killing time, scratch a stubby wing.
The Great Auk sweats out approval
on a re-fi mortgage, doubling down
because things didn’t turn out so great.
The Cassowary scolds them all,
_____________________“Remember the Moa?  the Caracara?
they made bad decisions, living beyond
their means!” and buys only generic
house-brands at the Food Giant.

The Red-eyed Crake, never married,
books a cruise of the islands,
thinking, this time, please, someone special.