by Jacob Friesenhahn

impossible


the body so quickly becomes a thing
     after death of course the body was
already a thing but it was a thing
     that breathed and spoke a thing
with a smile a thing that blinked
     now the body stiffens like a penis
when one is asleep turns hard
     and cold and green and red
as even your blood decomposes
     your body bloats your skin breaks
bacteria feast upon intestines
     heart and brain you tell me I choke
horribly when I am asleep my poor
     brain thinks I am dying my heart
races to compensate only to damage
     itself to draw death closer I know
none of this I only know I have napped
     again in my favorite chair I pretend
not to believe as when you tell me
     a celebrity has died I ask you to repeat
the name no I say that’s not possible






crucifixion


he talked about
the kingdom to come
and the one
right here within
he talked about his father
and the spirit too
but somehow
he forgot to say
I love you

he warned the rich
as best anyone could
he understood the poor
and they understood him
he embraced the sick in body
and in soul too
whoever stood all alone
along the margin
but never once did he say
I love you

he said nothing to Annas
only nothing to Caiaphas too
he had no reply for Pilate
didn’t care what he might do
even in the dream of Procula
he pronounced not one iota
as he passed through
to no one did he ever say
I love you






petrichor


people who must be moving
heavy furniture in the apartment
directly above our own
the weight and the strain
the brand new combinations

wondering if Zeus and Hera
can still love one another
overhearing your parents
arguing in whispers
about something serious
and you think it is you

the sound of other
people having sex
thunder and lightning
while you are asleep

the alphabet
the periodic table
displayed high on the wall
you are meant to look up
in order to understand

what I know is below
the way the air smells
as it begins to rain
the way you start to smile
before I have said anything
before I have discovered
the joke I must tell you






footing


on my morning walk
I found the footing
of a bridge
that was never built
jutting up nobly
but gently
the modest ruin
of what never was
what had no need
to collapse
even its cinder blocks
like hidden honeycomb
the color of its bricks
not a bad match
for this dry riverbed
bricks softening
slowly turning
into a powder
worthy to mingle
with the dust






hard
-- cowritten by Mark Hansbauer


I was busy gathering and tying up
bundles of dead branches
as the rain blew in from the north
the rain made the branches soft
as the mud around my boots
the rain made the branches slithery
as the rope I was using to bind
the bundles and the softness
made the work harder
the softness of it all
made the work harder
I chuckled as I carried another bundle
across the yard on an October day
as fall breaks the hold of summer
I looked beyond our fence
past the neighbor's treeless yard
down to the street and it felt
like looking across many valleys
where the rain was falling harder
in each than in the one before
and you were standing next to me
I had started to cry without knowing
but that was hidden by the rain
“Come in,” you say, “This can wait.”
“Come on inside.”

Jacob Friesenhahn Bio: Jacob Friesenhahn teaches Religious Studies and Philosophy at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio.

Mark Hansbauer Bio: Mark Hansbauer is known to the forests as Buffalo Gourd Sr. He writes poetry to prove it cannot be done.