Four Poems
Andrew Demcak

I Heard Whispers
For Liz Kendall and Theodore "Ted" Bundy

Listen, Seattle, or Salt Lake City.
I hear the distant whisk and groan of oar-

strokes. The lake shining behind blue placards
of pine trees, like a tear held by the lash

of a mother's eye. The curl of spawning
trout, like icy hands, thrashing in water.

Searching between leaf-litter and falling
cones, the delicate wren frets; its latest

egg eager to be laid, migratory
as desire. The spider re-threading

its net sways in its October home, hung
from the windy branch of a young girl's bones.

Subject Matter

still your one hand floundering
trying to
write your story with the tide

you wouldn't
return to an empty page

the teary shallows whispering

is nothing --
the sea is done

surf crashing
under a tired frigate
like a woman into a dress
on a bed where you once were welcomed

Myself in Memoirs

I'm this close
knee to chest
visited by angry philosophers

such news embarrasses me
when training

or American lap dogs

those boys awed by the rancor of slept-
in beds

however true to my journal:


then a few sticky peach peelings

and moonlight
on a dreamed-of ceiling

American Gothic

when she lurched for
the phone call
to practice her mouth
all lipstick

they chose to eat with the boys
fifteen minutes in the kitchen

good pop
good wife

and fuss about Aunt Dot waving
her lank arms
from some anonymous life