Two Poems

And I imagine our crystal ball, 
so I can imagine looking into it. 

It’s awesome. I'm dying. It’s awesome 
to draw the flash-before-your-eyes world 

like a bath, a sepia flush of hug-and-kiss 
moments in my deathbed death. 

Because in my imagined grow-old-together hospital 
is the future of us. 

Because in the serene and final eye-full, 
everything is fine. 

For a second though, I’ll make it tragic, 
with your hand on the pale pate of my head, 

my head, my mouth sucking another breath. But then, 
the great retro will come gloriously 

to play me out. Out of mercy, 

the reaper will come 
to take me to the movies, 

and in the serene and final eye-full 
everything is fine. 

I feel like I am right next to you. 

In the yolk-light, we’re touching. 
Steam-swelled and gauzy, 
smells of mint and rosemary 
rushing ruses into our heads
until there is no thought. 
We feel like now is the perfect time. 

These two I watch with my big friend Death 
exactly as they embrace in the pour of water. 

These two, I’m sure, won’t flinch, even when 
the power snaps out; 

it’s dark and the room has tightened.


The cracked earth and bunny rabbit 
are together at last. And the ditch's culled 

straws and cups the desert wind scuttles 
into hugs along a thistle-strung wire. 

The bunny goes cold, so the earth takes it in. 
It notices the skin is bristling, bubbling, 

and invents new gravity to comfy the swatch 
into smooth grade, and the bunny says its thank you 

and slenders down the spindly cracks 
with the eye-cuddling ants, and a belly replies 

in quiet, at the core of its grace.

PK FRENCH is the former managing editor of Puerto del Sol and a current writer for American Microreviews and Interviews. His work has appeared in Word Riot, Harpur Palate, and Slipstream, among others. His current project, Love Machines, from which these poems were taken, is the subject of an interview with Neon Magazine and can be read here. Finally, Paul French would like to issue you a weird third-person "thank you" for reading his poems. So thank you.
The Adirondack Review