Lish Ciambrone is an Illinois-born, Baltimore-aged, cheese wheel of a person: hard rind, extremely stinky, soft inside. Likes painting and poetry…. dislikes painting and poetry. Loves trucks and motorcycles. Proud Dad to Rex, certified Big Dog.
1 visual poem
by Lish Ciambrone
The traps have been set for months.
Though for years I have walked free
I never lost track of the bait and I never
go too far away.
Never leave a trap unattended.
I could practice non-attachment
or I could just detach.
So many bad remedies for heartbreak world
so many ways to say,
sterilize a wound.
The hallway has been empty for years.
Cold white tile, just in front of the closet.
On my belly I traced grey grout
to the scent of my father’s leather jackets.
The camcorder out of reach
The tiny flower wallpaper
No one was ever home.
No one home now.
What is there to do on dead father’s birthday
for the leather jackets also
might I hand our heavy sadness over
to the new head
of the department of memory.
She keeps moving the traps in the night.
Now it’s the couch I learned to fuck on,
the cloud covered afternoon I bit
my first shoulder: I saw stars
in freckle form.
There’s an omen for every dream
for every trap, a limb.
Could I have written the same eulogy
if he’d died today?
Would I say more or less
of his trespasses?
Would I tell the mourners
I can still smell him
Though he is gone and the closet is gone
The tile is gone.
The houses all gone all empty
The traps are everywhere
all wanting to be full.