AARON SANDBERG - POEMS

Aaron Sandberg resides in Illinois where he teaches. His recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Asimov’s Science Fiction, English Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Racket, Writers Resist, Yes Poetry, Unbroken, One Sentence Poems, Vita Brevis Press, Literary Yard, Perhappened Mag, and elsewhere. You might find him—though socially-distant—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.

​“Remembering Having Helped a Girlfriend Move”

​To have a system before was
       a clever move on her part
 
to guard against the chaos of the day
       or even how all the days after
 
unfolded like cardboard crates
      first bursting, sealed-up, and safe
 
like a heart.
      Still, her labels held and
 
reminded me
      where we knew each was
 
going to go.
      We thought it was a start--
 
then all those brown boxes emptied so
       quickly and broke down
 
after knife-sliced tape was torn
      off like the bandage.
 
And all of them knee-knocked and piled neatly
      next to an old blue dumpster
 
outside her new home for
      someone else to deal with--
 
someone else
      to throw away.
 

​“Scattering Ashes at a Disney World Attraction”

Not to belie the stowaway loved by
our mommies and dads in Ziploc
           more explosive than gunpowder
at the bottom of a smuggler’s purse,
 
she boards a boat and looks
 
left then right then
left again
 
past pirates and
skulls and crossbones half-mast
in what must
           be mourning or curse,
 
then buries in one smoky clump
not in flower beds nor mouse-eared topiary nor under shadows
of magic castle walls whose bricks get smaller
          the higher they climb
          to give the illusion
          of height
           into Heaven,
 
but in a lapping river gently flowing toward itself
past Dead Man’s Cove
on a brief but endless loop
where just a man makes her
debark at the end
            or the start
            to make room for the new--
 
and only then in this life
can she           run up a white
flag      or strike her
colors or get back
in line.
 
So now, this time,
nodding with Blackbeard to
keep her hands inside,
              clutching an
               empty bag
held by a
big heart
               booming like
                a cannon
 
in such a small
world.
 
 

​“Was Thrown”

Once, when I was ten,
a bottle was thrown in the passive
voice
through our front bay window.
 
             A cruiser was
                              dispatched.
             A truck was
                              caught.
 
And with it the boys,
one of whom we knew,
though I knew he didn’t know the house was ours.
 
But still, apologies were demanded back
in a very active
voice.
 
And years later,
 
                the house was
                               sold
 
as I’m sure the truck, too.
 
But what am I supposed to do
about forgiveness now?
 
I’ve sent things through glass since then--
through homes without address,
 
places held not by bricked cement glue,
 
nothing but bay windows painted black
to make it look
like no one
was home.
 
                  It starts with pebbles--
                  a flick of the wrist
 
then stones.
 
And later,
not rocks or bottles,
 
but fists.