MIT
Poetry
David Thorburn
THE MAN I KILLED
was in his early 30s, rosaceous,
pocky, the Checker
on a Newark pier. He said
I'll be respected
by New Jersey turds
like you reporters
and these Hoboken wankers
still wearing bog shit.
Don't you get it?
I said No pictures.
Later, off the wharf
the camera guy
used a telephoto lens
as I pointed, for my byline story,
Wildcat Strikers
Shut Port Newark.
The next week they found him
floating near a buoy
dead in Bayonne harbor
in a mess of bootleg whiskey
and my story in the paper.
LISE
Seeing the MGM lion roar
Lise complains she's seen this show before.
My father-in-law's live-in caretaker,
Haitian, tout douleur,
She knows Seventh Day Adventist lore
The perfidy of men, how to cure
Oppressive itching. Her
Cooking doesn't please him any more
But he likes her lilting French, her hair
And gentle hands, her living soapy spoor.
David Thorburn leaves the editorial board of the FNL with this issue but has agreed to continue as poetry editor. He is Professor of Literature and Director of the MIT Communications Forum. The above poems were first published in The Atlantic ("Lise") and in Slate ("The Man I Killed") and are reprinted by permission. |