A Change in Weather / Angels by Robin Shepard

A Change in Weather

A new word descends from absolute darkness.

The weather wrings its rough hands, and the sea

drags its feet across the planet. The sores of saints

are on display in reliquaries of disbelief. My ghosts

are quiet stars falling into quicksand memory.

Is that you waiting for the light to change? Suddenly,

the corrupt no longer feed pigeons in the park.

A tangle of misfortune chokes the neck of a garden.

This is the unsolicited path, sharp stones

and a hint of late afternoon. Your work is nothing;

devils and angels dance around the jagged edges.

You may be beaten, or worse, given a promotion.

My first death floats by on its back. I take a photo

of our hopeless audition. Lepers and whores place

bets on the future. Crippled furniture begins to walk.  

Here’s the story so far: We go to the lake with empty

baskets. Mortgage-free living. Gunshots over the hill.

Nothing cries anymore except wind. The last man

standing rapes my daughter. You say you believe, but

I’ve seen you wincing in your long, holy shroud.

Angels

The dedication to dad handwritten on the inside

jacket “with love and compliments” from Nick,

and the onion skin note folded between back pages.

Johnson’s tale of losers, lost and forlorn lovers,

failed plans and fate hanging in the air like a sweet odor.

A poet’s first novel and in this used paperback version

a conversation between father and son with dad’s

note falling to the floor: “Jamie and Bill didn’t have

a second chance. Love, Dad.” Nick’s “compliments”

opens the door to this American grotesque. A message

for his father from a son lost in disgust, his snide tone

scrawled in blue ink. Jamie and Bill head to Phoenix

on a Greyhound Bus: dark interiors, cross-country

shots of rotten booze and cheap hotels, a black ride

through a long night: Nick’s image of a family inferno

gifted to father, a monster, manipulator, malevolent

force of nature, maybe someone lost like his son or these

angels burning up their lives like pockets of change.

Robin Shepard is a poet and musician living in the lowlands of California's great central valley. His collection Quiet Stars Falling into Quicksand Memory was published in 2016 (Merced College Press).