the grimacing tree

once i buried
some of my pain
but years after
after i thought it
was long decayed
it broke the surface
& stretched into
a tree of pain
each blossom
a bouquet of bayonets
w/ boughs full
of razor-blade leaves
& on many
a sleepless night
i hear its poignant
pointed music
beneath my skin
this terrible tree
my twin skeleton
swaying & jangling
like murderous
wind-chimes

one for mrs. t.

in second grade
i used to imitate
arnold horschack
from the tv show
“welcome back kotter”
when the teacher
asked a question
i’d stab my hand
up thru air
& yell , ohh! ohh
ohh! ohh!
it was a brief
period of acting out
i was usually quiet
it probably had
to do w/ my grandmother
dying in my room
while i was moved up
to the unfinished attic
full of exposed insulation
& incoming nails
& a third-hand bed
from one of my cousins
& my brother
getting arrested
for burglary
& all the fighting
& screaming
but anyway
mrs. t. always sent
me to “the timeout nook”
where there were
big soft pillows
a shelf full of books
& colourful curtains
around the whole thing
my classmates thought
it was a punishment
being away from others
but i felt like a prince
we didn’t have books
at home so i read
& lay on pillows
i didn’t feel the need
to be in the group
or answer questions
or imitate tv show
characters
i was my true self
& i miss that nook today
& mrs. t.’s kind punishment

snouts

i don’t get writer’s block
b/c each cell in my shape
is a bloody screaming wound
a misfit achilles heel chorus
of haemorrhaging snouts
that i translate one-by-one
into the blackest of ink

my wish

i want my deathbed
to be a far off forest floor
no walls or roof
no voices or hands
just a whippoorwill song
while across my upward palms
the light of the milky way

Rob Plath is a writer from New York.