David Spicer is a former medical journal proofreader. He has published poems in Santa Clara Review, Synaeresis, Chiron Review, Remington Review, unbroken, Third Wednesday, Yellow Mama, The Bookends Review, The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Gargoyle, The Midnight Boutique, and elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net three times and a Pushcart once, he is author of one full-length poetry collection, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press) and six chapbooks, the latest of which is Tribe of Two (Seven CirclePress), released in September 2019. He lives in Memphis.
g h o s t a p p l e s
for Brenda Landman
Look ice hostages
trees their frigid hotels
Stop for a moment at least
The Arctic air their host
At some point their fruit plops
from the bottom holes
serve as clear round gates
for mush that drops steals
into snow vanishes into the past
Breathe slowly and hope
you catch them before it’s too late
after Terrance Hayes
My father squeezed my neck until I turned blue,
and my mother smashed his head with her Sunday purse.
She bought me a Greyhound ticket to my grandparents’
trailer park in Rapid City. For ten months, my grades
blossomed, and I listened to my grandmother berate
my grandfather: You and that Jackie Gleason fatso fool
are two buzzards of the same feather. I smiled at my
grandfather, tall and quick as an aging basketballer.
All he’d say was, Aw, shut up, Millie, and cook supper,
and kept watching The Honeymooners or Twilight Zone.
I’d like to see men try having babies, she’d continue.
My grandfather’d say, Let’s take a walk, son. I’ll teach
you to shoot snooker. I could have listened to them forever,
but my father drove a thousand miles to father me again.