Driving to a Funeral on a Sunday
My car broke down last Sunday,
on the way to a funeral.
And down the road, just by the shoulder,
there was a boy with sunspot eyes
and a head like a black hole
Who told me he could
make it pour on a dime,
flood the streets for a quarter, and
end the world for just one dollar.
I told him I had no money,
was on my way to a funeral.
He said he knew I'd come, said
because two days earlier, a man
with red eyes and rope-burn
scars on his neck,
had given up just one dollar
to see the world end.
I thought back to my father,
who'd tried to teach me the value
of a dollar when I was a child.
And knew, that if he were still alive,
I could teach him something now.
After 100 Days of Prayer
The man kneeling before me is dripping
with indulgence, a sort of cathartic thievery.
He is drained until he is nothing more than a gutted
fish, insides painted across the floor.
After praying for 100 days, I am aghast
I am ashore.
I have become nothing more than
a gutted fish, insides painted across the floor.
They said we'd be loud like thunder,
But here underground we are as silent
As the waning moon of the
Land that seems lifetimes above us
And when they dig up our bones centuries from now,
they'll find a certain quiet in our marrows -
chambers of suppressed thunder, locked in
by a lifetime of moonless existence
Eric Devenney is an undergraduate at Clark University. His work has appeared in the Kenyon Review Young Writers edition, 2008. He was a finalist in the Robert Creeley Poetry Prize Competition.