JAN WIEZOREK - POEMS

Jan Wiezorek divides his time between Chicago and Barron Lake, Michigan. He has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at The London Magazine, Southern Pacific Review, Bindweed Magazine, FIVE:2:ONE, Panoplyzine, Better Than Starbucks, and Schuylkill Valley Journal. He is author of Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011) and holds a master's degree in English Composition/Writing from Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago. 

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                                              Circularity
 
“Where the historian really differs from the poet is in his describing what has happened, while the other describes the kind of thing that might happen.”  --Aristotle
           
Cold berries, pliable as nipple, cut to seed. 
Their circularity censes praise.
I stalk these aisles for answers,
 
sniffing the known
around every unknown round:
not smooth, and/or supple, or both,
 
but tough as a carved raccoon
in God’s raw creation,
packed with claws displayed,
 
still inspiring questions.
Reeds scent my beard,
and it hurts
 
to lick wounds
or pick up what’s dropped.
When we meet
 
in blessed undergrowth
crushed by hills
and incense,
 
holes in my walking boots
open and press, leathery lips  
kissing you much like this.  
 
 
 
                                         Silent Stones
 

At the borderland
of wood and quarry,
I sunk along sumac.
 
I like to snap
twigs and hear lambs’ ear
in my forest furnaces.
 
Every molten generation
sits in flush
and smokehouse pink, 
 
like a wandering lad
who sees deer
in nude exchange.
 
Those rocks mark
my mother’s weeds.
I’m a tramping kid
 
who dropped off
the quarry’s edge.
It killed her insides
 
like a stumble
of silent stones
above our yard.
 
 
 

                                             Sippy Cup
 

Clipped nails:
of no use to you. 
 
We need force
to open a tin,
 
tear a packet,
switch on nostrils.
 
You breathe
the beginning
 
of desire
in plantation mint.
 
My honey bear
slides a spoonful
 
into your sippy cup.
Hot liquid
 
presses against
the roof.
 
We tuck it there
for seconds.
 
My eyes intercede
for yours.
 

 
                                          Mourning
 

Sad wires
have set themselves
to humming in the backyard.
 
Unsettled peace 
greys the rows
of tree fuzz.
 
Cardinals peep
contrapuntally,
slightly anxious.
 
My facial tics
pause in memory
of my bent neighbor.
 
She pushed
her walker
to the green plastic barrel.
 
We heard
whispers in the alley
off the main road.
 
Now, maudlin electricians
are raising new poles,
re-stringing wires,
 
giving the dead woman
many mourners.
Orange-lighted trucks
 
process along the alleyway.
A leaf turns
to remove its hat.       
 
 
                Sugared Orange Slices Under Glass
 

Sugared orange slices
obscure themselves
in pressed glass
 
that teases your thumb
as it rubs
the squeaky surface
 
below a castellated ridge
before climbing down
into the dish
 
and grabbing up
candied appearances
that dissolve
 
in sucking sounds
until what remains
is you grinning
 
at me,
both of us
toothless.