I guess April is National Poetry Month? In honor of that, here's a poem I wrote. The assignment was to write something in blank verse. This poem is written in blank verse.
Big Bang
The chestnut trees stood watch above the state-
ly houses' ting and geometric lawns.
A child's abandoned bike looks out of place:
an upturned tire, a breeze caught in the spokes.
The wives were statuesque and bronze.
The men inside their suits were crisp and sharp.
The kids were wads of chewing gum, all sweet
at first then tasteless. I, an only child,
among them, flavor of a different sort.
This was the postcard where we used to live:
each element composed precisely right.
My mother and my father: gods to me.
My father was a blond Adonis; I
his olive child. Our house, a temple to
their greater breeding intellect and taste.
In tux and gown they one night left me by
myself. I thought myself a guard at night
and charged with sentry work, each room
a diorama filled with life unknown,
a spirit there in each one lurked that was
not there at day. The empty house with si-
lence rang so I turned on appliances.
The microwave, the television, wash-
er /drier too, until the whole house hummed
with noise, and I was not alone.
It was at eight or so I heard a knock,
authoritative, coming from the door.
The doorbell rang a few times too, and then
the knock again. "Police," a voice said from
behind the door. I opened it and stand-
ing there, a bulky officer. "Your father home?"
he asked. Contempt was on the corners of
his moustache like the crumbs of donuts. Al-
so with him was a man that I had nev-
er met, and yet, I recognized his face.
He was a feral man who strayed somehow
into the postcard's frame. A streak of dust
and shadow seemed to haunt his weary face.
"Uncle," I said, not knowing why. The strang-
er smiled a smile that showed myself in him.
"My boy," he said, "I am your uncle. Yes,
I am. I am."
The bulky officer,
he arched a brow and crossed his arms.
"He's here
to watch me while my mom and dad are out.”
I said. “Can you not see it? Look at him,
then look at me."
The officer conced-
ed that there was resemblance and harrumphed.
"You told the truth about yourself,” the cop
said to the feral man, “but I don't trust
you still." The officer retreated back
into his cruiser, stealing one last glance
at us.
My uncle entered, but I did
not have a clue as what to say. We did
not speak. Instead we sat around the kitch-
en nook. He bowed his head above a bowl
of Lucky Charms, and I just watched him eat.
His hair, bedraggled, hung beside his head
like Cocker Spaniel ears. He ate one bowl,
and then he poured one more into the sug-
ared milk. He cupped the bowl with both his hands
and drank the milk. He belched. He wiped his sleeve
across his mouth. Before he left, he gave
to me an AM radio. That night
I hid my head between the sheets, my bed
a tent, and tuned the dial down. I fell
asleep as static hissed. I dreamt of all
the secret voices it contained.
"How does
a radio transmit the sounds across
the air?" I asked my dad.
"In waves," he said,
"that travel at the speed of light."
"And where
does static come from, dad?"
"The static on
the radio is radiation from
the making of the universe."
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