HENRY BOHAN
Brood
Mist slouches digging craters. Backs ragged.
The lightness of the showers clop on our
wood foundations, a house with no spoken
expressions tied to it. We hear sixteenths of snares.
Wood is rendered soft, dyed dark, like hairy ash
trees, poles in eventide.
The craters are supine; erosion from the
clouds, stones, adolescent grass, crawlings on
hands and feet and teeth, gentle gusts, and
perspiration of the seraphic rivers hiding ceramic
zygotes revealed in ditches. We are raising one, but
it dried silent in a corner.
––––
Mule
Farm the hectic. Red, evil crags spitting insect blood are
optimal plots. My cabin is burning, its four walls
inverted toward the stars. Its roof is a gangrenous pith, either in the
context of a citrus rind or a helmet. I turn over rocks and
the air unseen by the sun breathes wisdom. The soil is cold but
moves like a belly. Upon setting a mule forth, it is
heavy upon the leg knowing there will be no son, yet sweats in the
sun and turns over its own rocks and dies an organ taking in and
spewing out. I smile at manure.
––––
Henry Bohan is a poet and artist born and raised in New York. His work centers on themes of rejecting nihilism yet also resignation to the will for power; we are modes of nature, and mantles of power and mass always falls apart. Authors Henry owes a lot to are Yusef Komunyakaa, Rae Armantrout, Baruch Spinoza, and Søren Kierkegaard, to name a few. He has been previously published in the College Hill Independent, Field by XYZZY, online at Spectra Journal, in print for Works and Days Issue 1 by Beautiful Day Press, and in print in NEW Issue 3.