Mike Stutzman
Three Poems
On Day 37 of Quarantine, I Dream of the Jolly Green Giant
In my valley, a touch
can thaw. Three minutes more
heat and your mouth
is filled with a ripe
thousand pearls. Almost
impossible, this sweet moment
on demand, yours
for the wanting, one rough tear
of the waxed clasp.
The dark field seed writhed from
is far away, the sun
that tempted it memory.
I promise you are not
tasting a memory. The green
dream you chose and kept cold
was waiting to have you.
I am two stories tall, muscles
eager vines snaking
a tree. I smile like a peeled god,
watching my deep fold
of good earth give
and give, sprouted, fresh,
ready for steam
and service. O let me
echo within you.
On Day 51 of Quarantine, I Dream of Sonny, the Cocoa Puffs Bird
My bow is made of sugarcane.
The arrows are heavy with tropic
flowers. If I let fly
my fragrant arrow, yes,
I may wake Death, burnt in a wink
to a million calories of longing. Sweet
imposter, you downy liar
tucked into my nest. I see
my beloved and we go cartoon: eyes
spin hypno-eddies, lust
a ricochet rocket slamming us
through the room. Grownups
call it madness, this young
satisfaction. Name the hour. Shimmy from
the pile of plaster dust and collapse,
mirrored bruises, the dark chocolate
milk of getting what you wanted.
On Day 87 of Quarantine, I Dream of the Brawny Lumberjack
Look how quick he takes me in,
how strong his quilt and flannel gaze remain
as they hold the spreading spill of me.
I am a traitor to messes everywhere,
in love with my tidy removal, like the trees
who trusted the axe, believing its handle
was still one of them. Right now I need
a good man ready to absorb my mistakes,
biceps and careless hair to make me space
with steel and tradition. A little breathing room
and a scrub-brush tangle of moustache
amongst the stumps. Old growth dead
and trucked away, sky clearcut
so someone’s god could see us. Every touch
feels bleach-white, thirsty and new.
My steel-eyed zen riddle, if we fall
in the forest, who would know?
—Submitted on 06/29/2020
Mike Stutzman‘s poems have appeared in Tablet, Tatoosday, The Chattahoochee Review, Sunday Salon, The Northville Review, and other journals, as well as in the occasional chapbook series Ballerz: Poems About the NBA (O, Miami, 2010 and 2020). A clinical informatics professional, Stutzman lives on the Connecticut shoreline with numerous chickens, ducks, cats, turkeys, and honeybees.
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